L 


MAXIMS   OF   ART 


FRENCH   FOLLY 


IN 


MAXIMS 


OF    ART 


Translated  and  Edited  by 

HENRI   PENE  DU   BOIS 


BRENTANO'S 


Copyright,  i8g4,  by 
BRENTANO'S 


PN 


PREFACE. 

The  public !  How  frightful  the  word  is ! 
It  is  much  more  frightful'  than  the  thing  itself. 
For  the  public  is  all  powerful  in  favor  of  or 
against  the  mercantile  artist  who  in  art  sees 
only  commerce.  It  may,  if  it  wishes,  fill  the 
purse  of  this  business  man.  But  the  public 
can  do  nothing,  either  for  or  against  the  sin- 
cere artist  whom  only  love  of  the  true  and  the 
beautiful  guides,  and  to  whom  glory  itself  is 
only  an  accessory  aim.  This  artist  depends  on 
his  peers,  and  on  posterity,  which  alone  can 
judge  definitely. 

We  should  not  let  words  amaze  us.  I  do 
not  like  the  famous  imprecation  against  the 
public  which  Fernand  Desnoyers  wrote.  He 
called  the  public,  "  Beast  with  the  head  of  a 


vi  PRE  FA  CE. 

calf,  a  rabbit,  and  a  snake  !  "  I  do  not  like  it, 
because  it  lacks  measure.  Even  in  lyrical 
poetry  one  should  be  polite.  Then  the  poet 
could  not  have  drawn  that  sort  of  a  head.  If 
it  is  a  calfs  Head,  it  cannot  be  a  rabbit's ;  and 
if  it  is  a  calf  and  rabbit  head,  it  cannot  be  at 
the  same  time  a  snake's.  Nevertheless,  if  the 
artist's  anger  is  expressed  in  an  empyric  form 
it  is  not  the  less  legitimate. 

Somebody  has  said  that  the  public  had  more 
wit  than  Voltaire.  I  do  not  believe  this.  I 
think  that  the  public  has  not  as  much  wit  as  a 
dunce.  It  likes  silly  works  and  the  silliest 
songs,  and  burns  incense  at  the  feet  of  ugly 
idols. 

Yet,  endless  are  the  platitudes  that  even 
men  of  genius  have  said  in  favor  of  the  public. 
How  servilely  Moli^re  bent  before  it,  every 
poet  who  has  read  the  prologue  to  "  Amphi- 
tryon "  sadly  knows.  He  did  not  believe  a 
word  of  this  infamous  prologue,  but  his  excuse 


PREFACE.  vii 

is  that  he  had  to  feed  a  particularly  ravenous 
company  of  players. 

Artists  are  not  in  his  predicament.  They 
may,  and  they  must,  dispense  with  the  public. 
They,  and  they  only,  are  great  magicians 
enough  to  give  to  a  modern  sovereign  the  cos- 
tume of  Caesar  Augustus. 

Universal  suffrage  never  created  a  celebrity. 
"Whenever  it  had  the  air  of  creating  the  glory 
of  an  individual,  the  glory  lasted  for  a  day. 

None  may  be  judged  but  by  his  peers. 
This  action  of  civil  law  is  always  true,  but  it  is 
still  truer  in  art.  Posterity  can  do  nothing  but 
ratify  the  verdict  of  an  artist's  peers.  As  for 
the  immediate  judgment  of  an  artist's  contem- 
porary public,  it  always  finds  its  way  into  the 
lumber-rooms  with  old  clothes  and  old  moons. 

Public !  You  may  enrich  whom  you  will, 
crowd  a  sumptuous  playhouse  or  a  circus  tent, 
and  buy  the  painted  canvases  of  this  or  of  that 
workman.     But    you   can    do  nothing    more. 


viii  PREFA  CE. 

You  have  not  a  twig,  nor  a  leaf,  of  the  laurel 
that  winters  do  not  kill.  You  have  not  it,  and 
you  cannot  give  it. 

All  the  hypocritical  prefaces  in  which  blind 
success  is  glorified  rest  on  a  willful,  deceptive 
confusion  of  these  two  beings :  Public  and 
People.  The  people  is  easily  moved.  It  is 
sincere,  illuminated,  by  the  divine  light  of  in- 
stinct, quick  at  understanding  art  and  rule  be- 
cause it  is  a  workman  in  the  trades.  It  may 
be  impressed  by  the  absolutely  beautiful.  But 
the  public  cannot  assimilate  the  beautiful. 

What  is  the  public?  A  crowd,  an  acci- 
dental assembly  of  all  sorts  of  people  in  places 
too  high-priced  for  representatives  of  the 
people  and  of  elevated  minds.  The  public  is 
not  at  all  instinctive.  It  is  more  rich  than 
learned,  and  its  education  is  always  inferior  to 
its  social  situation. 

The  public  has  an  abiding  faith  in  politics, 
in  committees,  in  Congressional  debates.     The 


PREFA  CE.  IX 

people  has  the  same  indifference  for  these 
things  that  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  expressed.  It 
does  not  in  the  least  care  to  know  who  holds 
the  handle  of  the  pan  in  which  it  is  frying. 

The  public  is  intoxicated  by  words,  compli- 
cated laws,  and  all  sorts  of  things  that  cost 
nothing,  and  which  are  not  good  to  eat.  The 
people  does  not  care  for  incoherent  figures. 

The  public,  ever  seduced  by  sentimental  and 
false  ideas,  likes  the  comfort  of  hospitals,  char- 
ity, fairs  for  the  poor,  and  all  the  expressions  of 
philanthropy  which  permit  society  to  mingle 
with  comedians  and  to  disguise  themselves  into 
dairy-maids. 

The  people  detests  hospitals,  and  the  entire 
apparel  of  charity  appears  to  it  to  be  a  means 
of  eluding,  or  of  extinguishing  with  weak  in- 
stallments, an  imperious  debt  which  will  have 
to  be  paid  some  day. 

The  public  is  a  born  stockholder,  and  gives 
good  gold  in  exchange  for  green-tinted  paper. 


X  PRE  FA  CE. 

Artists  need  not  convince,  nor  fear,  nor 
flatter  the  public.  If  they  be  good  enough 
workmen  to  be  regarded  as  such  by  their  peers, 
and  if  they  have  not  the  fatuity  to  expect  any. 
thing  from  posterity  ;  if  their  works  are  sincere, 
truthful,  and  not  decked  with  false  jewels,  they 
may  earn  enough  to  buy  a  gown  once  a  year 
for  their  wives.  What  more  do  they  want  ?  A 
simple  artist  need  not,  like  Vanderbilt,  have  a 
special  cook  for  each  dish  of  his  meals. 

The  unique  condition  of  good  art  is  to  give 
to  the  delicate  among  the  people  something  for 
which  they  are  always  hungry  :  sincerity.  Be 
sincere  !  There  is  no  other  rule.  There  is  no 
other  system.  All  the  teachers  who  have 
taught  differently  have  deceived  you. 

All  men  of  genius  have  been  sincere.  There 
are  no  schools  in  art,  there  are  only  individu- 
als. Every  man  of  genius  is  necessarily  an 
individual,  an  isolated  being,  precisely  because 


PREFACE.  xi 

sincerity  is  his  only  rule  and  that  none  may 
borrow  from  him  his  manner  of  being  sin- 
cere. 

Imitators  are  naturally  lazy  and  cowardly. 
They  begin  by  reducing  to  a  convention,  to  a 
formula  which  it  is  horribly  easy  to  apply,  the 
things  that  they  imagine  are  the  processes  of  a 
master.  Now,  a  master  has  no  process.  His 
only  rule  is  to  observe  as  exactly,  as  naively  as 
possible,  nature,  life,  and  the  human  mind. 
His  means  of  expression  are  as  varied  as  are 
his  infinite  and  diversified  sensations.  His 
imitators  are  consequently  his  worst  enemies. 
They  are  his  contrary,  and  they  are  not  at  all 
of  his  school. 

If  we  are  sincere  in  criticism  as  well  as  in 
invention,  we  shall  have  to  acknowledge  that 
m.en  of  genius,  from  the  mere  fact  that  they 
exist,  have  delivered  the  world  from  conven- 
tion and  formula. 

Sincere — everybody  wishes  to  be,  everybody 


xii  PREFACE. 

would  be,  if  the  demon  of  the  commonplace 
did  not  always  lead  one  to  the  summit  of 
a  mountain  and  promise,  and  honestly  give, 
all  the  kingdoms  of  earth  in  return  for  his 
cult. 

It  is  enough,  in  order  to  obtain  all  the  mate- 
rial riches,  honors,  and  rewards,  for  the  artist 
to  flatter  the  sempiternal  Philistine  prejudice 
and  confuse  art  with  morality.  Art  and  mor- 
''lity  have  nothing  in  common. 

The  world,  as  it  is,  asks  only  one  thing :  It 
asks  that  it  shall  be  painted  as  it  is  not.  Feign 
to  see  it  as  it  pretends  to  be  and  it  will  open  to 
you  all  the  caverns  of  the  Rajahs. 

Morality  in  art !  Think  of  it !  Apply  the 
formula,  and  what  wretchedly  inferior  works 
are  the  Iliad  and  the  Venus  of  Milo  !  Art 
and  morality  !  It  is  vainly  that  the  spider's 
web  has  been  torn  by  the  spur  of  every  passing 
cavalier.  Academies  on  the  pedestals  of  their 
monuments  place  the  figure  not  of  Art,  but  of 


PREFA  CE.  xiii 

Wisdom,  as  if  it  were  ever  wise  to  do  anything 
other  than  the  thing  which  is  to  be  done. 

The  true  artist  creates  men  and  women.  He 
does  not  please  the  public,  but  he  holds  all  the 
people  who  think. 

A  work  of  art  expresses  the  mind  of  its 
workman.  In  it  are  clearly  reflected  his  vices 
and  his  weaknesses.  He  may  deceive  men, 
perhaps,  but  not  inspiration,  which  shall  not  be 
duped  by  his  hypocrisy. 

An  artist  must  be  simple,  kind,  enthusiastic, 
ardently  in  love  with  the  beautiful,  humble 
and  naive. 

David  de  la  Gamme,  often  quoted  in  this 
book,  is  called  a  Pre-Raphaelite  when  he 
writes  over  another  signature,  which  I  am  not 
to  reveal.  I  owe  to  him  everything  that  I 
know.  It  is  not  much,  but  such  as  it  is,  it  is 
his.     He  is  not  a  Pre-Raphaelite. 

Paul  Verlaine,  for  the  Digression  of  whom  I 


xiv  PREFACE. 

am  indebted  to  Philip  Zilcken  and  to  the  tire- 
less kindness  of  Mr.  S.  P.  Avery,  is  the  great 
poet  of  the  present  time. 

Henri  Pene  du  Bois. 


MAXIMS  OF  ART. 


There  is  really  beautiful  only  the  useless. 

Theophile   Gantier. 


That  life  may  be  grand  one  must  put  in  it 
the  past  and  the  future.  Our  works  of  poetry 
and  art  must  be  accomplished  in  honor  of  the 
dead  and  with  the  thought  of  those  who  are  to 
come  after  us. 

Anatole  France. 

III. 

It  is  a  crime  to  efface  the  successive  impres- 
sions made  on  stone  by  the  hand  and  mind  of 
our  ancestors.  New  stones  carved  in  old  style 
are  false  witnesses. 

Ibid. 


2  Maxims  of  Art. 

IV. 

Art  is  aristocratic  or  nothing. 

Edouard  Pailleron, 

V. 

Art  makes  no  concessions,  it  imposes  them. 

Ibid. 

VI. 

In  art  the  great  trick  is  not  to  do  better,  but 
to  do  otherwise. 

Ibid. 

VII. 

Beware  of  an  artist  who  talks  too  well  of 
his  art.     He  wastes  his  art  in  talk. 

Ibid 

VIII. 

To  an  artist  usurers  are  terrible,  but  woman 
is  worse. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art. 


In  the  first  place  work.     Have  talent  and 
you  shall  have  success. 

Edouard  Pailleron. 


Art  was  aristocratic  yesterday,  it  is  democratic 
to-day,  and  consequently  subject  to  universal 
suffrage  and  its  necessary  disgraces. 

Ibid. 


Have  success  and  there  shall  always  be  fools 
to  say  that  you  have  talent. 

^bid. 

XII. 

To  love,  for  an  artist,  is  perilous.  To  marry, 
to  put  into  the  secret  of  his  work,  that  is  of  his 
efforts,  of  his  doubts,  and  of  his  discouragements, 
a  woman  who  believes  in  him  as  in  God,  and 
imagines  that  to  create  a  solemn  gesture  is  suf- 
ficient for  him  as  for  God,  this  is  an  irreparable 
fault. 

Ibid, 


Maxims  of  Art. 


XIII. 

There   are    wives   for   artists,  as   for  poets, 
actors,  military  men,  and  even  state  ministers. 
Edouard  Failleron, 


The  moral  of  art :  beauty. 

Edmond  et  Jules  de  Goncourt. 


"Woman,  when  a  masterpiece,  is  the  greatest 
art  object. 

Ibid, 


Summit   of    the  *  absolutely   beautiful :    the 
Torso  of  the  Vatican. 

Ibid. 


Courbet's  painting — the  ugly,  always  the 
ugly,  the  ugly  without  character,  without  the 
beauty  that  there  may  be  in  the  ugly. 

Ibid, 


Maxims  of  Art. 


XVIII. 

Art  is  the  "  eternization  "  in  a  supreme  force 
absolute  and  definite,  of  the  *'  fugitivity  "  of  a 
creature  or  of  a  human  being. 

EdjHond  et  Jules  de  Goncourt. 

XIX. 

There  is  a  wearisome  beauty  which  resem- 
bles a  pensum  of  the  beautiful. 

Ibid 


Ideas  of  healthy  democracy  have  facilitated 
independent  opinion  in  matters  of  art.  Art 
criticism  has  not  now  its  former  pedantic  tone. 
It  misinforms  the  public,  but  it  condemns  no- 
body to  death. 

Ary  Re  nan. 

XXI. 

I  prefer  silence  rather  than  music. 

Th'eophile  Gautier. 


Music  is  a  noise  costlier  than  other  noises. 

Ibid 


Maxims  of  Art. 


XXIII. 

Books  are  not  written  to  be  read  aloud. 

Theophile  Gautier. 

XXIV. 

Never  has  a  virgin,  young  or  old,  produced  a 
work  of  art. 

Edtnond  et  Jules  de  Goncourt. 


Art  is  not  one,  or  rather  there  is  not  only 
one  art.  Japanese  art  has  its  beauties  like 
Greek  art.  At  bottom  what  is  Greek  art  ?  It 
is  realism  of  the  beautiful,  with  nothing  of  the 
ideality  preached  by  the  art  teachers  of  the 
institute.  In  Greek  beauty  there  is  neither 
dream,  nor  fantasy,  nor  mystery. 

Ibid. 

XXVI. 

The  genius  of  horror  is  the  genius  of  Spain. 

Ibid. 

XXVII. 

The  beautiful  is  simple. 


Paul  de  St.  Victor. 


Maxims  of  Art. 


XXVIII. 

The  marvelously  white  marble  of  the  Pan- 
theon is  as  black  as  ebony. 

Gustave  Flaubert. 

XXIX. 

In  the  nude,  painted,  sculptured,  or  de- 
scribed, some  see  only  the  line  of  the  beautiful ; 
others  see  always  temptation. 

Edmond  et  Jules  de  Goncourt, 


The  beautiful  is  something  which  appears 
abominable  to  the  uneducated. 

Ibid. 

XXXI. 

The  beautiful  is  what  your  servant  instinc- 
tively thinks  is  frightful. 

Ibid. 

XXXII. 

The  seductive  trait  of  a  work  of  art  is  always 
in  ourselves.     Who  knows  if  all  our  impres- 


8  Maxims  of  Art. 

sions  of  exterior  things  come  not  of  these 
things,  but  of  ourselves.  There  are  sunny 
days  which  seem  gray  to  the  mind,  and  gray 
skies  which  one  recalls  as  the  brightest  in  the 
world.  The  quality  of  wine  is  in  the  glass, 
the  instant,  the  place,  the  table  where  one 
drinks  it.  The  beauty  of  woman  is  in  the  love 
which  looks  at  her. 

Edmond  et  Jules  de  Goncourt. 

XXXIII. 

Blue  is  a  color  whereof  azure  is  the  dream, 
and  it  is  light  which  of  that  reality  makes  this 
ideal. 

Catulle  Mendes. 

XXXIV. 

The  canvas  where  beauty  is  to  be  shaped  is, 
to  the  artist,  no  more  a  piece  of  stuff  than  for 
the  faithful  priest  the  tabernacle  where  God  is 
to  come  is  wood. 

Ibid. 
XXXV. 

No  painting  is  equivalent  to  the  invisible 
reverse  of  the  canvas. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art. 


XXXVI. 

The  artist  is  like  a  royal  prisoner  who,  in  his 
cell  piteously  closed  with  iron  shutters,  lights  a 
thousand  torches :  colors  whereof  the  blind 
panes  of  glass  should  be  illuminated — but  on 
the  other  side  there  is  the  light  of  the  sky. 

Catulle  Mendes. 


One  becomes  disgusted  with  art  objects  when 
one  considers  the  people  who  own  them,  with 
women,  when  one  considers  those  whom  they 
have  loved,  and  with  social  circles  when  one 
considers  those  who  are  received  in  them. 


Edmond  et  Jules  de  Goncourt. 


XXXVIII. 

The  idea  is  inseparable  from  the  sentiment, 
the  sentiment  from  the  sensation,  from  language 
of  lines,  or  colors,  of  lights  and  shades  which 
are  immediate  realizations. 

Seailles. 


lo  Maxims  of  Art. 


The  art  of  painting  is  perhaps  more  indiscreet 
than  any  other.  It  is  an  indubitable  testimony 
to  the  moral  state  of  the  painter  at  the  instant 
that  he  held  the  brush. 

Eus^ene  Frofnentin. 


There  are  a   thousand  ways   of  seeing   the 
same  object. 

Jules  Lemaitre. 


The  body  has  a  character  as  complex  and  as 
difficult  to  comprehend  as  the  moral  character 
whereof  it  is  the  translation  and  the  symbol. 

Ibid. 

XLII. 

There  is  no  still  life  since  I  have  looked  at 
the  vase  which  I  painted  with  eyes  that  are 
human, 

Etighie  Carj-iere. 


Maxims  of  Art.  1 1 

XLIII. 

How  vain  is  painting  which  attracts  admi- 
ration by  resemblance  to  originals  that  we  do 
not  admire. 

Blaise  Pascal. 


Art  and  life  are  under  different  conditions. 
Art  is  fed  on  the  excessive,  life  exacts  activity 
without  shock  or  violence. 

Paul  Flat. 


XLV. 

It  is  impossible  to  mark  in  history  the  epoch 
where  an  art  finishes,  the  epoch  where  another 
art  commences. 

M.  Betile. 


XLVI. 

Great  nations  are  not  more  easily  explained 
than  great  men. 

Ibid, 


1 2  Maxims  of  Art, 


XLVII. 

Architecture  has  been  the  teacher  of  all  the 
other  branches  of  art. 

M.  Beule. 

XLVIII. 

Art  is  the  intervention  of  the  human  mind  in 
the  elements  furnished  by  experience. 

Ibid. 

XLIX. 

To  work  in  the  same  manner  as  the  master, 
to  copy  and  make  over  again  the  work  that  he 
had  done,  was  the  first  sentiment  of  artists. 
Thus  they  appropriated  the  patrimony  of  the 
past  and  profited  by  the  expierence  of  the  gen- 
erations which  had  preceded  them. 
That  is  why  all  the  monuments  in  Greece  have 
a  family  air. 

Ibid. 


The  Greeks  had  the  justest  intelligence  of 
art ;  they  knew  that  the  works  of  men  endure 
only  by  beauty  of  form,   and   that  the   most 


Maxims  of  Art,  13 

beautiful  thought  is  nothing  if  the  expression 
which  translates  it  is  not  still  more  beautiful, 

M.  Beule. 


LI. 

The  modem  spirit  is  in  direct  opposition  with 
the  antique  spirit.  The  ancients  thought  of 
form  before  everything;  we  think  of  thought 
before  everything. 

Ibid. 

LII. 

In  criticising  an  architectural  work,  do  not 
think  of  the  theoretical  explanations  until  after 
you  have  searched  in  vain  for  the  material 
explanations. 

Ibid, 


The  first  condition  necessary  to  appreciate 
and  to  produce  good  painting  is  to  have  culti- 
vation. 

H.   Tainc. 


14  Maxims  of  Art . 

LIV. 

All  real  talent  is  tact. 


H.  Tau 


Arts  of  design  require  a  soil  not  too  highly 
cultivated. 

Ibid. 


People  of  wit  never  have  so  much  wit  as 
when  they  are  together.  To  have  works  of 
art,  you  need  in  the  first  place  artists  and  also 
studios. 

Ibid. 


Flemish  painting  is  brilliant  only  in  qualities 
distinct  from  intellectual  qualities. 

Charles  Baudelaire. 

LVIII. 

The  arabesque  drawing  is  the  most  ideal  of 
all  drawings. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  15 

LIX. 

Music  digs  heaven. 

Charles  Baudelaire. 


The  beautiful  is  something  ardent  and  sad, 
something  vague,  lending  a  field  to  conjec- 
ture. 

Ibid. 


A  beautiful  woman's  head  is  one  which 
makes  one  dream,  in  a  confused  manner,  half 
pleasure  and  half  sadness. 

Ibid. 

LXII. 

To  create  a  commonplace  is  to  have  genius. 

Ibid. 

LXIII. 

Germany  expresses  reverie  with  lines,  Eng 
land  with  perspective. 

Ibid. 


1 6  Maxims  of  Art, 


LXIV. 

Music  gives  the  idea  of  space. 

Charles  Baudelaire. 


LXV. 

The  role  of  elevated  industries  is  not  to 
counterfeit  but  to  innovate. 

A.  Jacqueinart. 

LXVI. 

Even  when  the  genius  of  artists  rests  on  pre- 
existing ideas  or  is  inspired  by  ideas  of  another 
age  or  of  other  countries,  it  must  transform 
them  by  impressing  upon  them  the  seal  of  its 
individuality,  and  by  making  them  applicable 
to  the  manners  and  to  the  conventions  of  its 
time. 

Ibid. 


Fashion  disturbs  at  once  gowns  and   furni- 
ture, and  even  architecture. 

Francis  Aubert. 


Maxims  of  Art.  1 7 


One  would  be  surprised  to  learn  how  a 
sovereign,  an  artist,  a  banker,  or  even  an  ordi- 
nary woman  in  evidence,  can  by  her  tempera- 
ment and  her  preferences  for  reform,  by  her 
manner  of  seeing  things,  by  a  particular  taste 
in  fine,  change  everything  around  her, 

Francis  Aubert. 

LXIX. 

The  supreme  law  of  art,  harmony,  or  unity  in 
variety  must  be  applied  to  every  form  of  art. 

Ibid. 


There  are  no  beautiful  creations  in  presence 
of  which  one  may  not  feel  an  emotion  of  min- 
gled joy,  admiration,  and  surprise. 

Ibid, 

LXXI. 

The  painter  is  guided  by  nothing  except  his 
judgment. 

Nestor  Roqiieplan. 


1 8  Maxims  of  Art. 


The  purely  mechanical  portion  of  the  art  of 
the  tapestry-weaver  may  be  learned  in  a  year. 
Nestor  Roqueplan. 


Study  of  creations  of  art  of  glorious  epochs 
teaches  us  that  every  work  of  art  must  be  in 
harmony  not  only  with  received  ideas  but  also 
with  independent  artistic  ones. 

Paul  Mantz. 


This  utilitarian  and  mercantile  epoch  ap- 
plies all  its  efforts  to  diminishing  fatigue  and 
pain. 

Auguste  Luc  he  t. 


In  art,  this  epoch  destitute  of  enthusiasm  has 
the  faculty  to  reproduce  and  to  imitate  what- 
ever it  pleases  with  a  perfection  that  no  other 
epoch  ever  attained. 

Ibid, 


Maxims  of  Art.  19 


One  never  invents  anything,  one  only  repeats ; 
but  one  may  marvelously  improve. 

A  nguste  Luc  he  t. 


LXXVII. 

The  old  lives  and  the  new  is  dead. 

LXXVIII. 


Ibid. 


Ancient  works  make  one  warm,  modern 
ones  leave  one  placid.  The  reason  is,  perhaps, 
that  the  ancients  had  more  faith  than  we  have. 

Ibid, 

LXXIX. 

Certainly  to  copy  with  exactness  is  some- 
thing, but  to  invent  is  better. 

Paul  Mantz. 

LXXX. 

The  impression  produced  on  man  by  a  beau- 
tiful work  is  made  of  surprise,  admiration, 
sympathy,  love,  desire,  and,  generally,  joy. 

Francis  A  ubert. 


20  Maxims  of  Art » 

LXXXI. 

If  it  is  melancholy  that  predominates  in  the 
emotion  produced  by  a  work  of  art,  the  reason 
is  that  the  work  is  sublime. 

Francis  Aubert. 


To  make  an  impression  on  new  minds  beauty 
must  be  transcendental. 

Ibid. 


The  law  of  conventions  must  dominate  all 
the  conceptions  of  the  artist.  If  it  did  not, 
Maecenas  would  hesitate  to  surround  himself 
with  objects  the  utility  of  which  should  be 
more  apparent  than  real. 

A.  Jacquemart. 

LXXXIV. 

The  best-trained  eye  could  not  replace 
science  of  proportions. 

A-  de  La  Roque. 


Maxims  of  Art.  2 1 


All  the  arts  the  end  of  which  is  not  imme- 
diate reproduction  of  nature,  such  as  music, 
poetry,  and  architecture,  owe  their  processes  to 
physical  laws  the  exactitude  of  which  is  mathe- 
matical. 

A.  de  La  Roqtie, 

LXXXVI. 

Ask  of  a  spring  only  the  water  it  can  give, 
and  thank  Heaven  for  it. 

Francis  Aiibert. 

LXXXVII. 

In  searching  for  severity  many  have  found 
ennui. 

Paul  Mantz. 


Something  will  remain  of  this  passing  epoch 
that  the  future  discounts  and  that  interest 
squanders.  This  is  workmanship.  It  was 
never  more  admirable. 


Auguste  Luchet. 


Maxims  of  Art. 


LXXXIX. 


What  is  taste  ?     Nobody  knows.     It  is,  per- 
haps, the  soul. 

Atigtiste  LticheU 


The  epochs  which  never  violated  the  laws  of 
decorative  convention  in  art  are  those  which 
were  the  grandest. 

Ernest  Chestieau. 


Nothing  so  well  reflects  the  intimate  thought 
of  a  sculptor  as  the  earth  which  he  has  shaped 
under  his  fingers. 

J.  Grangedor. 

XCII. 

To  be  faithful  to  one's  inspiration,  to  the 
ardors  of  one's  temperament,  to  the  fancies  of 
one's  imagination,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
obey  the  best  and  the  healthiest  traditions  of 
decorative  art,  is  to  give  a  true  proof  of  strength 
in  grace  and  of  respect  for  oneself  and  others. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  23 

XCIII. 

To-day,  more  than  ever,  when  it  is  the  fash- 
ion to  be  skeptical,  allegory  is  in  disfavor. 

Francis  Aubert. 


Does  not  everybody  know  that  in  the  picture 
of  a  colorist  all  is  nothing  but  illusion  ? 

J.  Grangedor. 


In  painting  all  is  convention ;  in  decorative 
art  all  is  reality. 

Ibid, 

XCVI. 

If  the  artist  limits  himself  to  the  transcrip- 
tion of  a  reality  which  is  before  his  eyes,  if  he 
is  resigned  to  be  a  decorator  or  an  entertainer, 
his  works  may  interest  amateurs,  but  they  shall 
never  evoke  a  sympathetic  echo  in  any  artist's 
mind. 

Ernest  Chesneau. 


24  Maxims  of  Art. 

XCVII. 

The  modern  artist  lives  isolated,  surrounded 
by  a  crowd  which  does  not  understand  him. 

A.  de  La  Rogue. 


All  arts  are  obscured,  filled  with  vanities  and 
useless  artifices,  through  the  maliciousness  of 
professors. 

Gaspard  de  Saulx. 


XCIX. 

Will,  faith,  and  patience,  on  the  three  a  ray 
of  sunlight — such  is  genius. 

Auguste  Luchet. 


Landscape  is,  from  the  point  of  view  of  pure 
aesthetics,  the  true  complement  of  man. 

Ernest  Hache. 


Maxims  of  Art,  25 


It  is  easy  to  steal  success,  to  surprise  the 
public  either  by  stereotyping  an  impression  or 
by  juggling  with  the  grotesque  or  the  impos- 
sible. 

Ernest  Hache. 


CII. 

If  you  wish  to  fix  the  solar  spectrum,  retire 
into  the  dark  room. 

Ibid. 


Nothing  resists  art  more  effectively  than  the 
commonplace  black  coat. 

Ibid. 

CIV. 

Nothing    is  easier  than  to  be  conventional 
about  the  Orient. 

Ibid. 


26  Maxims  of  Art. 


The  classic  landscape  is  to  painting  as  is 
tragedy  to  letters. 

Ernest  Hache. 

CVI. 

A  sacred  forest  may  be  a  forest,  although 
sacred. 

Ibid. 

CVII. 

All  artists  really  strong  are  kinsmen. 

Ibid. 

CVIII. 

Modem  industry  is  justified,  in  advance,  in 
using  all  processes  to  apply  them  to  works  of 
any  style. 

Alfred  Darcel. 

CIX. 

It  is  sweet  to  say,  "  What  a  great  painter  I 
might  have  been  !  " 

The  op  hi  le  Gautier. 


Maxims  of  Art.  27 


One  may  look  at  gods,  kings,  pretty  women, 
and  great  poets  without  disturbing  them. 

Theophile  Gatitier, 


CXI. 
It  is  seldom  that  an  artist  may  be  known 
by  his  first  and  charming  aspect,  fame  comes 
to  him  only  when  the  fatigues  of  life,  struggle, 
and  tortures  have  altered  his  primitive  physi- 
ognomy. 

Ibid. 


It  is  more  difficult  to  be  a  great  poet  than  to 
be  a  great  painter. 

Ibid. 


CXIII. 

Of  all  arts,  the  one  which  lends  itself  least 
to  the  expression  of  the  romantic  idea  is 
assuredly  sculpture. 

Ibid. 


28  Maxims  of  Art. 


Sculpture  received  from  antiquity  its  definite 
form. 

Theophile  Gautier, 


What  can  a  sculptor  do  without  the  gods 
and  the  heroes  of  mythology  ? 

Ibid. 


CXVI. 

Every  sculptor  is  necessarily  classic. 

Ibid. 


CXVII. 

Every  sculptor  is  naturally  of  the  same  relig- 
ion as  the  Olympians. 

Ibid. 


CXVIII. 

Sculptors  are  generally  physically  strong. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art ,  29 


Color  should  not  seem  to  one  to  be  culpable 
sensuality. 

Theophile  Gautier. 

cxx. 

There  is  a  quality  which  is  rare  in  art :  force. 

Ibid. 


Every  beautiful  work  is  a  germ  planted  in 
April  which  will  bloom  in  October. 

Ibid. 

CXXII. 

To  be  young,  intelligent,  to  love  and  to  com- 
mune in  art,  is  the  most  beautiful  manner  of 
living. 

Ibid. 


To  fall  from  heaven  it  is  necessary  to  have 
gone  there,  if  only  for  an  instant,  and  this  is 


30  Maxims  of  Art. 

more  beautiful  than  to  crawl  on  earth  during 
one's  entire  life. 

Theophile  GaiUier. 

cxxiv. 

An  artist  of  middle  age  should  not  review 
the  opinions  and  the  women  whom  he  loved  at 
twenty. 

Ibid. 

cxxv. 

Poetry  is  not  a  permanent  state  of  the  soul. 

Ibid. 


The  poet  is  the  only  artist  who  cannot  be 
laborious.     His  work  does  not  depend  on  him. 

Ibid. 


The  idea  that  a  poet  may  be  exclusively  a 
poet  and  live  on  his  work  may  not  be  de- 
fended. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  31 

CXXVIII. 

The  artist  has  no  place  in  modem  civiliza- 
tion. 

Theophile  Gautier. 

CXXIX. 

Real   artists  have  no  other   professors  than 
themselves. 

Ibid. 


cxxx. 

The  French  school  of  art  has  for  its  principal 
qualities  wisdom,  clearness,  soberness,  philo- 
sophic composition,  correct  drawing ;  but  it 
satisfies  reason  more  than  the  eyes. 

Ibid. 

cxxxi. 

The  aim  of  art  is  not  exact  reproduction  of 
nature,  but  creation,  by  means  of  forms  and 
colors,  of  a  microcosm  wherein  may  be  pro- 
duced dreams,  sensations,  and  ideas  inspired 
by  the  aspect  of  the  world. 

Ibid. 


32  Maxims  of  Art, 

CXXXII. 

The  romantic  painters  have  sought  for  every- 
thing which  will  distinguish  them  from  Philis- 
tines. 

Thiophile  Gautier. 

CXXXIII. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  has  produced  one 
great  painting,  if  only  one ! 

Ibid. 


cxxxiv. 

Life  does  not  always  keep  its  promise,  but 
art  has  never  deceived  us. 

Ibid. 


cxxxv. 

If  by  chance  fortune  comes  to  the  threshold 
of  an  artist  who  has  drunk  until  then  from  the 
cup  of  the  ideal  only,  he  goes  at  once  to  a 
skillful  goldsmith  for  his  champagne  silver 
pails. 

3id. 


Maxims  of  Art.  t,t, 

CXXXVI. 

The  goldsmith  works  only  for  emperors, 
popes,  kings,  princes,  and  the  fortunate  people 
of  the  world. 

Theophile  Gautier. 


CXXXVII. 

The    Greeks    have    forever  determined   the 
laws,  the  conditions,  and  the  ideal  of  art. 

Ibid. 


It  is  painful  for  a  composer  to  write,  for  a 
poet  to  feed  his  poetry  with  his  prose,  for  a 
painter  to  pay  for  his  pictures  with  his  litho- 
graphs ;  in  a  word,  for  an  artist  to  live  of  the 
trade  of  his  art. 

Ibid. 

CXXXIX. 

In  art,  as  in  reality,  one  is  always  some- 
body's son. 

Ibid. 


34  Maxims  of  Art. 


There  are  poets  of  twenty  whose  works  are 
forty  years  of  age. 

TMop  h  He  Ga  u  tier. 

CXLI. 

It  is  rare  that  a  poet  can  distinguish  wheat 
from  barley. 

Ibid. 

CXLII. 

One  may  love,  admire  a  master  and  be  de- 
voted to  him  without  ever  copying  him. 

Ibid. 

CXLI  1 1. 

The  poet  should  see  human  things  as  a  god 
would  see  them  from  Mount  01}Tnpus. 

Ibid. 

CXLIV. 

The  poet  should  reflect  the  things  that  he 
sees  without  personal  interest  in  them. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  35 


CXLV. 


The  mission  of  art  is  to  give  to  things  the 
superior  Hfe  of  form. 

Theophile  Gautier. 


The  Greeks  of  Marseilles,  who  inhabit  a 
golden  bank,  between  the  double  azure  of 
heaven  and  sea,  are  familiar  with  the  antique 
at  their  birth. 

Ibid. 

CXLVII. 

One  needs  a  rare  philosophy  and  a  very  pure 
love  of  art  to  work  in  the  shadow. 

Ibid. 


There  are  poets  who  have  talent  and  even 
genius,  and  do  not  ever  write  great  poems. 

Ibid. 

CXLIX. 

The   most   difficult  thing  to  understand  in 
painting  is  a  solitary  figvu-e. 

Ibid. 


36  Maxims  of  Art , 


Poetry  is  a  prodigal,  like  nature. 

Theophile  Gautier. 

CLI. 

The  visionary  eye  of  the  poet  knows  how  to 
disengage  the  phantom  from  the  object  and  to 
mingle  the  chimerical  with  the  real  in  propor- 
tions which  are  poetry  itself. 

Ibid. 

CLII. 

In  a  dream  of  ideal  Gothic  architecture,  in  a 
choir  opened  on  the  sky,  with  fourteen  niches 
framed  with  twisted  columnettes  of  red  marble, 
crowned  with  leaves  of  stone,  are  young  smil- 
ing women,  allegories  of  virtues  and  of  sciences, 
dressed  in  virginal  colors,  and  on  whom  fall 
softened  lights — this  is  a  work  of  Taddeo 
Gaddi. 

E.  el  J.  de  Goncourt. 

CLIII. 
You  are  not  an  artist  if  you  have  not  earned 
the  hatred  of  fools. 

Theodore  de  Banville. 


Maxims  of  A  rt.  3  7 


THE   HATRED   OF   FOOLS. 

With  his  great  comedy  in  verse,  in  five  acts, 
"  The  Infanta,"  produced  at  a  Palmer  matinee, 
the  poet  won  a  triumph  such  as  had  not  been 
heard  of  in  years.  He  became  radiant  at  once 
in  full  glory.  All  the  play-houses  wanted  plays 
from  him,  all  the  magazines  sent  blank  contracts 
to  him  which  he  had  only  to  fill,  and  editors 
and  publishers  of  newspapers  crowded  his 
drawing-room  as  do  the  flowers  of  IMay  a  gar- 
den. If  he  wished,  he  might  have  thought  that 
he  was  a  great  man,  and  tried  on  his  brown  head 
a  hat  made  of  laurel  leaves.  But  on  the  con- 
trary, he  was  not  confident,  even  a  week  after- 
ward when  he  went  to  New  Rochelle  to  see 
his  old  friend,  Prof.  Glardon. 

As  he  entered  the  studio,  vast,  warm,  and  in- 
timate, wherein  one's  mind  receives  calmness 
and  joy,  he  was  glad  that  the  master  had  gone 
out  because  it  gave  him  time  to  collect  his 
thoughts.  The  servant  was  dressing  the  table, 
which  is  of  the  Francis  I.  epoch  and  carved  with 
the  representation  of  a  dance  of  nymphs  and 
of  fauns. 


38  Maxims  of  Art. 

The  poet  looked  at  two  heavy  easels  on 
which  were  paintings  of  Helen  of  Sparta,  tall, 
superb,  with  her  calm,  starlike  visage,  walking 
in  the  moonlight  in  the  plains  of  Troy,  near  the 
river  which  rolled  its  waves  reddened  by  the 
blood  that  had  been  spilled  for  her.  The  other 
canvas  showed  under  a  furious  sun  a  figure  of 
natural  size,  a  breaker  of  stones,  whose  face 
was  hideous  and  savage  but  resigned. 

As  he  was  admiring  these  two  works.  Prof. 
Glardon  came  in.  He  is  vigorous,  gigantic,  as 
strong  as  an  oak,  with  eyes  of  somber  gray, 
admirably  kind,  energetic,  and  brave.  He  shook 
the  hands  of  the  poet  with  tender  effusiveness 
and  said : 

"  Nobody  could  have  been  as  happy  as  I  am 
at  your  success." 

"  At  my  success  only  !  "  said  the  poet  anx- 
iously. 

"  Yes,  but  what  does  it  matter  ?  I  know 
only  color  tubes  and  brushes.  I  am  an  old 
man,  trying  to  reproduce  effects  of  color  that 
only  the  initiated  may  understand,  and  I  know 
no  more  about  poems  than  the  passer-by." 

"  Oh !     Like  masters  of  the   sixteenth  cen- 


Maxims  of  Art.  39 

tury  you  might  build  palaces  and  cathedrals, 
fortify  cities,  construct  aqueducts,  chisel  jewels, 
model  a  Colossus,  and  if  you  wished,  write 
sonnets  like  Michael  Angelo.  Alas,  my  com- 
edy did  not  please  you  !  " 

*'  But,  why  should  I  be  forced  to  tell  you  the 
truth  ?  Truth  is  a  very  inconvenient  goddess, 
good  only  to  soil  one's  carpets  with  dripping 
water.  She  comes  out  of  a  well,  you  know. 
Her  first  duty  is  to  dry  herself,  her  second  is 
to  put  on  a  veil." 

As  he  was  talking,  a  tall  young  girl,  pale 
as  a  lily,  her  heavy  gilt  chestnut  hair  brushed 
back  without  ornament,  entered,  bowed,  and 
seeing  that  there  were  brushes  uncleaned  began 
to  wash  them  with  black  soap. 

"  Well,"  continued  Prof.  Glardon,  "  your 
work  was  too  near  to  perfection  and  too  far 
from  life.  Women  cried  and  smiled,  the  pub- 
lic applauded,  the  press  unanimously  celebrated 
you,  but  you  have  not  had  the  only  consecra- 
tion which  is  not  deceptive,  the  only  serious 
promise  of  a  laurel  crown,  the  only  praise 
which  has  any  value." 

"  \Vhat  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  poet. 


40  Maxims  of  Art. 

"  Hatred  of  fools  !  ' '  said  Prof.  Glardon. 
"  It  never  errs.  If  you  haven't  it,  you  have 
nothing.  All  the  rest  may  be  appearances,  lies, 
and  illusions.  It  may  be  that  women  were 
charmed  because  the  wind  was  east  and  that 
the  men  were  gay  because  the  actress  has  a  pug 
nose.  Semi-artists  may  have  been  made  en- 
thusiastic by  the  appearance  of  perfection  and 
timid  people  by  the  applause  of  your  friends. 
The  press  may  praise  you  because  your  talent 
is  honorable  enough.  But  the  hatred  of  fools 
is  like  paradise.  You  shall  not  obtain  it  if 
you  have  not  earned  it  a  hundred  times  in 
thoughts,  words,  and  acts." 

David  de  La  Garnme. 


The  tendencies  of  the  coming  epoch  shall  be 
dissimilar  in  art. 

Georges  Lecomte, 

CLVI. 

The    art  of  the  future  may  be  more  philo- 
sophic and  more  intellectual. 

Ibid. 


Maxim s  of  Art.  41 


A  mysterious,  dreamy  art  of  painting  may 
come  after  the  present  standard  reproductions 
of  nature. 

Georges  Lecomte. 

CLVIII. 

Nature  disengaged  by  the  impressionists 
from  all  contingency,  interpreted  into  logical 
harmonies  of  tones  and  of  lines,  gives,  besides 
plastic  joy,  intimate  emotions  of  an  intellec- 
tual order. 

Ibid. 


The  annunciators  of  the  art  of  the  future, 
that  is,  of  mystic  art,  are  not  as  great  innova- 
tors as  they  think  they  are. 

Ibid. 


CLX. 

The  new-comers  in  art  do  nothing  but  con- 
tinue systematically  a  long  evolution. 

Ibid. 


42  Maxims  of  Art 


I  have  been  subjected  to  vajious  transforma- 
tions. I  have  had  the  Prix  de  Rome.  I  have 
produced  in  marble  busts  of  Themistocles  and 
statues  of  Abundance,  which  the  government 
has  bought  and  which  have  ornamented  pubhc 
gardens.  There  are  stupid  trades.  But  I  quit- 
ted the  commonplace  years  ago.  I  studied 
drawing  under  Monet  and  Degas — yes,  sir, 
Monet  and  Degas — and  these  two  great  men 
have  taught  me  how  to  reproduce  instanta- 
neously a  movement,  an  impression,  the  expres- 
sion of  a  face,  and  to  make  exact  sketches  as 
rapid  as  the  flying  moments. 

David  de  J  a  Gam  me. 

CLXII. 

It  is  not  easy  to  write  the  Iliad,  but  it  is  not 
easier  to  create  paper  dolls  which  will  talk 
without  talking. 

Ibid. 

CLXIII. 

To  question  humbly  and  resolutely  the 
human  face  is  the  only  way  of  obtaining  what 


Maxims  of  Art.  43 

modern  writers  call  human  documents.  There 
never  was  any  other  way.  Chambermaids  lie, 
young  women  who  confide  to  you  their  remi- 
niscences had  read  them  in  bad  novels ;  but 
eyes,  a  nose,  a  mouth  are  bound  to  tell  the 
truth  if  it  be  asked  of  them.  Lines  are  forci- 
bly sincere,  and  even  the  face  of  the  Joconda 
says,  "I  lie." 

David  de  La  Ganwie. 

CLXIV. 

Every  face  talks  the  better  when  it  talks 
without  saying  anything. 

Ibid. 

CLXV. 

There  is  no  instance  of  a  man  who  devoted 
his  life  to  a  cult  for  Shakespeare  and  remained 
an  ordinary  man. 

Philoxene  Boyer. 


Book  lovers  were  always  art  lovers.  The 
thought  of  circulating  libraries  impresses  them 
as  painfully  as  would  the  thought  of  circulating 


44  Maxims  of  Art. 

the  stained-glass  windows,  the  images  carved 
in  wood,  the  statues  of  the  kings  of  Israel,  or 
the  paintings,  or  the  ornaments  on  the  columns 
of  the  cathedral  of  Amiens. 

David  de  La  Gamme. 


An  artist  may  place  in  a  work  only  his  mind. 
If  his  mind  be  pure,  filled  with  love  for  man- 
kind and  ardently  in  sympathy  with  elevated 
ideals  his  work  shall  be  admirable. 

Ibid. 

CLXVIII. 

Exaltation  of  the  best  in  everything  is  the 
significance  of  art.  It  demands  religious  in- 
spiration, since  genius  is  not  logical,  has  only 
perception,  and  reaches  its  highest  flights  in 
moments  of  pure  ecstasy. 

Ibid. 

CLXIX. 

One  should  salute  with  joy  the  dawn  of  new 
art,  because  it  is  not  proper  that  new-comers 


Maxims  of  Art.  45 

should  be  the  slaves  of  the  formulas  of  their 
elders. 

Georges  Lecomte. 

CLXX. 

You  may  be  seduced  by  all  the  chimerical 
systems  which  mediocrity  invented  to  make  of 
dramatic  art  an  art  of  pure  legerdemain.  But 
read  a  page  of  Shakespeare  and  these  vain 
ideas  will  vanish  from  your  mind  like  light 
clouds. 

David  de  La  Gamme. 

CLXXI. 

In  the  most  respectable  galleries  impression- 
ists' pictures  have  taken  their  place  by  the  side 
of  the  masterpieces  of  other  times.  Slowly 
the  education  of  the  public  has  been  formed. 

Georges  Lecomte. 

CLXXII. 

Twenty  years  of  strong  works  have  made 
those  who  mocked  the  impressionists  hush. 
The  least  informed  of  critics  acknowledges 
that  the  evolution  has  been  accomplished. 

Lbid. 


46  Maxims  of  Art. 


We  are  not  far  from  the  time  when  comic 
operas,  operettas,  and  burlesques  made  fun  of 
the  great  impressionists'  paintings. 

Georges  Lecomte. 

CLXXIV, 

Impressions  received  from  one  site  vary 
infinitely,  according  to  the  intensity  and  the 
tone  of  the  astral  diffusion. 

Ibid. 


One  motive,  ceaselessly  repeated  in  modified 
forms  by  the  height  of  the  sun  in  the  sky,  shall 
be  a  pretext  for  very  dissimilar  effects. 

Ibid. 


There  is  no  fashion  in  the  art  of  expressing 
nature  as  it  is. 

Jules  Clareiie. 


Maxims  of  Art.  47 


Paul  Potter  has  nothing  to  fear  from  the 
severity  of  the  future,  because  he  has  yielded 
nothing  to  the  passing  craze. 

Jules  Claretie. 

CLXXVIII. 

As  modern  apartments  are  somber  people 
want  paintings  in  clear  colors. 

Charles  Jacque. 

CLXXIX. 

If  the  passion  for  books  might  be  attenuated, 
if  this  love  which  never  decreases  might  be 
deceived,  this  would  be  done  assuredly  through 
philosophic  observation  of  the  vanity  which 
lurks  in  this  religion,  which,  like  all  relig- 
ions, has  false  priests  and  false  followers. 

Octave  Uzanne. 

CLXXX. 

If  at  any  moment  of  your  life  you  ever  had 
the  slightest  shade  of  a  thought  that  nudity  was 
immoral,  or  that  painting  a  picture  was  a  way 


48  Maxims  of  Art. 

of  earning  wealth,  or  fame,  or  simple  considera- 
tion, or  that  art  had  any  other  object  than  to  be 
art,  drop  your  palette.  Be  a  Philistine,  for  that 
is  your  temperament. 

David  de  La  Gamine. 


CLXXXI. 

It  is  not  a  crime  to  be  a  Philistine. 


Ibid. 


SERVE   GOD    OR    MAMMON. 

In  Grove  Street  the  passers-by  usually  stop  in 
surprised  admiration  before  the  grille  of  a  paved 
corridor  which  leads  to  a  house  the  front  of 
which  is  made  almost  entirely  of  glass.  It  is  the 
property  of  a  painter,  and  it  was  bequeathed  to 
him  by  a  very  old  unmarried  woman  whom 
Aaron  Burr  and  Washington  Irving,  people  say, 
had  courted;  but  one  must  not  put  too  much 
faith  in  what  people  say. 

Miss  Ellen  and  her  father  are  suiTounded  by 
the  esteem  of  their  neighbors,  and  they  live  in 
retirement ;  yet  they  often  have  visits  of  illustri- 


Maxims  of  Art.  49 

ous  persons,  of  politicians  who  ask  advice  of 
his  implacable  common  sense,  and  of  great 
artists  who  were  his  pupils  and  have  not  ceased 
to  regard  him  as  their  master.  These  have  no 
illusions  about  their  triumphs  if  they  have  his 
supreme  approval.  One  of  them  stepped  out  of 
an  elegant  hansom  cab  the  other  day  and  lis- 
tened for  an  instant  to  the  notes  of  an  organ 
playing  in  the  studio. 

Too  impatient  to  wait  till  the  music  had 
ceased  he  pulled  the  knob  of  the  bell  and,  the 
door  opening  of  itself,  walked  through  the  cor- 
ridor and  passed  into  the  vast  studio.  Miss 
Ellen  was  playing  a  prelude  by  Bach.  In  the 
silence,  in  the  noble  harmony  of  the  severe  sur- 
roundings, this  prelude  executed  by  the  tall 
young  girl  similar  to  a  Muse,  and  whose  features, 
illuminated  by  interior  ecstasy,  were  resplend- 
ent, had  a  truly  celestial  character,  and  her 
father  and  the  visitor  relished  a  few  of  the  rare 
instants  when  vile  terrestrial  preoccupations  are 
unknown  and  minds  aie  filled  with  light.  When 
the  music  ceased.  Miss  Ellen  affably  bowed  to 
the  visitor  and  retired.  Her  father  lit  his  old 
black  pipe  and  offered  a  cigar  _to  his  former 


50  Maxims  of  Art. 

pupil;  but,  although  his  manner  was  cordial, 
he  said  nothing. 

"Perhaps  you  have  observed,"  the  visitor 
said  timidly,  "  my  ardent  and  respectful  admira- 
tion for  Miss  Ellen.  I  did  not  dare  to  confess 
to  myself  a  sentiment  which  from  day  to  day 
has  grown  stronger.  I  imagined  I  was  not 
worthy  enough,  but  you  know  what  my  pres- 
ent situation  is.     .     .      ." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  the  old  painter  replied, 
softly,  "  you  know  that  Ellen  and  I  are  in  per- 
fect communion  of  minds.  She  has  not  a 
thought  that  she  conceals  from  me.  I  know 
that  she  does  not  wish  to  be  married." 

"  You  are  not  selfish  enough,"  said  the  vis- 
itor, "  to  accept  a  sacrifice  which  she  would 
make  for  you  if  she  wished  to  marry  and  gave 
you  the  impression  that  she  did  not.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  my  proposal  is  rejected  by  her  as  well 
as  by  you,  and  I  am  convinced  that  my  work 
does  not  please  you.  What  faults  have  you 
found  in  my  last  picture  ?  " 

"  My  rheumatism  keeps  me  at  home,"  said 
the  old  man.    "  I  did  not  see  your  exhibition." 

"  0!  "  said  the  visitor,  in  a  tone  at  once  re- 


Maxims  of  Art.  51 

spectful  and  irritated,  '<  I  saw  you  there  and  I 
know  that  you  looked  at  it." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  old  man  severely,  "you 
see  that  I  wish  to  be  as  if  I  had  not  seen  it.  I 
have  not  to  criticise  your  work,  and  my  praise 
is  of  no  value  to  you.  So  let  us  drop  the  sub- 
ject and  be  friends.  You  have  money,  fame, 
and,  probably,  a  great  deal  of  talent.  Art  is 
not  what  it  was  once,  and  a  street  Arab  has 
forgotten  more  than  Plato  ever  knew." 

"  Yes,  but  not  more  than  Zeuxis  or  Phidias," 
said  his  pupil.  "  You  were  my  master ;  tell  me 
the  truth." 

"  I  might  observe,"  said  the  old  man,  "that 
I  have  rarely  seen  you  in  years,  that  in  the  in- 
terval untruth  has  been  sufficient  for  you,  and 
that  you  have  known  very  well  how  to  live 
without  my  advice.  But  it  shall  not  be  said 
that  you  have  invoked  my  frankness  in  vain. 
Your  Venice  is  neither  a  goddess,  nor  a  woman, 
nor  anything  else  !  She  smiles  like  a  wax  fig- 
ure, she  has  neither  muscles,  nor  lines,  nor 
forms ;  her  movement  is  that  of  a  living  picture 
at  Koster  &  Rial's ;  she  poses  in  a  lapis-lazuli 
and  opal  landscape  powdered  with  mica,  and 


52  Maxims  of  Art. 

the  ridiculous  children  that  are  flying  around 
her  are  made  of  stuffed  satin.  You  paint  so 
skillfully  that  you  succeed  in  placing  nothing 
on  your  canvas.  It  is  neat,  pretty,  clever, 
false.  In  fine,  you  have  deserved  the  ignominy 
of  being  adored  by  society  people." 

"  Oh  !  "  the  visitor  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"  Yet,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  you  might 
be  sincere  if  you  wished.  I  consent  to  accept 
mythology,  but  you  should  reflect  that  in  the 
modern  conception  of  it  Aphrodite  is  a  gigantic 
force  whose  celestial  purity  nothing  may  tarnish, 
that  she  is  a  formidable  divinity,  and  that  the 
desires  which  are  created  by  her  must  be  beauti- 
ful and  vivid.  Do  you  wish  to  make  of  her  a 
woman  ?  You  may,  for  the  human  figure  con- 
tains everything ;  but  let  her  head  be  proudly 
poised  on  her  heroic  and  strong  neck  ;  let  her 
breast  be  of  flesh ;  let  her  arms  be  graceful 
enough  to  enchant  minds  and  to  overthrow 
lions.  To  think  that  I  have  known  you  a 
child  of  genius,  wanting  everything,  capable  of 
everything  !  " 

The  visitor's  eyes  were  filled  with  sadness. 
He  said,  "  Will  you  give  me  one  other  lesson  ?  " 


Maxims  of  Art.  53 

The  old  man  replied,  "  Yes,  but  it.  will  be  the 
last.  I  am  so  old  now.  Anthony,"  he  shouted 
to  a  model  who  was  waiting  in  an  adjoining 
room,  "  put  on  your  clothes  and  come  here." 

Then  he  rolled  into  the  light  an  easel  on 
which  was  placed  a  small  canvas  representing 
a  scene  of  sufifering  among  striking  cloak-mak- 
ers. His  pupil  wished  to  express  admiration, 
but  the  old  man  hushed  him  with  a  gesture  and 
said : 

"  No,  do  not  punish  me  for  my  frankness  by 
complimenting  me.  I  do  not  like  praise. 
Look  at  this  model.  Tony  is  ugly,  but  how 
wittily  and  vividly  ugly.  Don't  make  of  him 
a  juvenile  comedian.  Remember  that  I  taught 
you  to  reproduce  instantaneously  a  gesture 
caught  in  the  street ;  remember  that  a  muscle  is 
a  being,  that  the  least  inflection  expresses  life, 
and  that  fugitive  impressions  are  to  be  deter- 
mined by  force  of  will  and  of  love." 

Under  the  master's  eye  the  visitor,  trans- 
figured, resuscitated,  become  himself  again, 
worked  obstinately  for  three  hours.  During  this 
time  the  old  man  modeled  a  sketch  in  clay 
and  Ellen  read  aloud  verses  of  Dante. 


54  Maxims  of  Art. 

"  My  child,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "  you 
are  great  again.     This  is  a  masterpiece  !  " 

*'  Well,"  said  Ellen  in  a  voice  which  was 
sonorous  and  firm,  "  quit  your  false  glory,  stay 
here  and  work  !  " 

He  hesitated.  Everything  in  the  studio 
appealed  to  his  heart.  He  had  grown  in  this 
environment,  wherein  he  knew  that  truth 
resided.  But  he  thought  of  his  triumphs,  of 
his  happy,  envied,  brilliant  life,  and  bent  his 
head.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not  the  cour- 
age." 

"  Then  go,"  said  Ellen,  whose  face  expressed 
only  contempt,  and  who,  without  a  glance  at 
the  visitor  saying  good-bye  at  the  door,  resumed 
in  silence  her  reading  of  Dante. 

David  de  La  Ga7?ifne. 

CLXXXIII. 

In  art  there  are  no  schools,  there  are  only 
individuals. 

Ibid. 

CLXXXIV. 

It  ii  imperatively  necessary  to  paint  nature 
from  nature  and  not  reminiscences. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  55 

[  CLXXXV. 

Do  not  torture  your  mind  in  quest  of  abstract 
beauty ;  be  content  with  the  beauty  that  is  in  a 
landscape  or  an  attitude. 

David  de  La  Gamine. 

CLXXXVI. 

Be  sincere. 

Ibid. 

CLXXXVII. 

Sincerity  is  easily  said,  but  it  is  not  easily 
practiced.  Innumerable  lessons  learned  are  in 
its  way. 

Ibid. 

CLXXXVIII. 

What  one  feels  is  altered  in  its  instantaneous 
expression  by  what  one  has  read  or  admired 
elsewhere. 

Ibid. 

CLXXXIX, 

If  one  imagine  that  resemblance  in  portraits 
be  absolute  and  uniform,  how  mistaken  the 
idea  is  ! 

Ibid. 


56  Maxims  of  Art. 


The  same  subject  may  serve  for   radically 
different  portraits,  all  relatively  truthful. 

David  de  La  Gamme. 


Light,  moods,  innumerable  accidents  make 
model  and  painter  infinitely  varied. 

Ibid. 

CXCII. 

A  portrait  reflects  its  creator  as  much  as  its 
theme. 

Ibid, 

CXCIII. 

A   painter   cannot    imitate    a   characteristic 
without  recreating  it. 

Ibid. 


A  portrait  painter  must  have  instinctive  sagac- 
ity, sureness  of  view,  imagination,  and  the  intu- 
ition of  a  poet. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art  57 


cxcv. 

There  are  psychological  portraits  in  which 
every  trait  is  subordinated  to  moral  expression ; 
there  are  mundane  portraits  which  are  clear 
and  expressive,  but  less  profound  than  grace- 
ful ;  there  are  portraits  expressive  without 
familiarity,  individual  and  vivid,  but  general- 
ized in  careful  regard  to  form. 

David  de  La  Gatnme. 

cxcvi. 

Thinkers  and  observers  will  certainly  rejoice 
in  the  possession  of  the  vivid  and  sincere  im- 
pressions of  illustrious,  or  simply  curious,  fig- 
ures of  the  present  time.  One  may  wish  that 
artists  of  to-day  who  have  renounced  the  cold 
madrigals  of  ancient  landscapes  might  replace 
also  in  their  real  life  the  distinguished  figures 

of  the  past. 

Ibid. 

CXCVII. 

Doubtless  the  age  in  which  we  live  is  a  Shy- 
lock.  It  has  lent,  in  the  guise  of  money,  its 
youth,  its  ardor,  its  incessant  labor,  and  it  re- 


58  Maxims  of  Art. 

quires  in  exchange  its  pound  of  flesh.  Epi- 
gram-makers say  that  this  pound  of  flesh  the 
women  whom  modern  painters  ideahze  have 

not. 

David  de  La  Gamme. 


CXCVIII. 

The  old  masters  of  Holland  amaze  one  by 
the  minuteness  of  their  exactitude. 

Ibid. 


CXCIX. 

It  would  be  heresy  not  to  be  enthusiastic 
about  the  old  masters ;  yet  one  may  not  hesi- 
tate to  turn  from  them  to  the  most  recent 
works. 

Ibid 


cc. 

It  is  not  because  they  proscribe  ochre  and 
brown  colors  that  the  impressionists  are  mod- 
em. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  59 


Every  great  artist  has  his  habits,  his  repeti- 
tions, his  grimaces,  and  they  are  no  more  his 
genius  than  a  mole  is  a  face. 

David  de  La  Ga7ninc. 

ecu. 

One  should  accept  everything — yellow  trees, 
Venices  floating  in  mist,  seas  pale  blue  striated 
with  gold,  coats  blacker  than  ink — everything 
except  imitations  of  imitations. 

Ibid. 


As  nature  is  infinite,  diverse,  eternally  vari- 
able, unexpected,  and  disconcerting,  the  real 
artist  understands  that  he  must  at  every  mo- 
ment create  new  modes  of  expression.  What 
living  creation  suggests,  the  things  that  happen 
in  his  mind,  the  emotions  that  succeed  one  an- 
other within  him  with  amazing  swiftness,  are  to 
be  immobilized  by  him  by  means  that  experi- 
ence cannot  teach.  In  such  moments  he  is  not 
a  workman,  but  one  inspired.  Imitate  him 
honestly  and  your  painting  will  not  resemble 


6o  Maxims  of  Art. 

any  work  that  he  ever  produced,  and  it  will  be 
as  great  as  his  masterpiece. 

David  de  La  Gamnie. 

CCIV. 

Statues,  like  words,  should  be  used  in  right 
places.     Otherwise  they  are  solecisms. 

Jean  Pierre. 

CCV. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  world  except  art. 

David  de  La  Gamme. 

CCVI. 

SERVE   ART   OR    EROS. 

Perfect  community  of  ideas  unites  a  painter 
and  a  comedian.  The  comedian  transfigures 
himself  into  Ben  Butler,  Bismarck,  or  anybody 
else,  whenever  he  wishes.  The  painter  gives 
animation  to  the  frigid  crowd  of  the  painted 
figures  and  makes  them  live  like  the  human 
crowd  created  by  Shakespeare.  When  the 
comedian,  completing  with  the  most  lucid  intu- 
ition documents  that  he  had  patiently  gathered, 


Maxims  of  Art.  6i 

forms  the  definite  conception  of  a  historical 
personage,  the  painter  summarizes  his  work  for 
him  in  a  portrait  audacious  and  true,  which  the 
comedian  will  copy. 

A  week  ago,  the  comedian  observed  that 
the  painter's  work  was  not  as  good  as  it  might 
have  been,  and  so  he  called  on  his  friend,  de- 
termined to  learn  the  reason  of  his  weakness. 
Really,  the  painter  was  apparently  the  prey  of 
mortal  despair. 

"  Well,"  said  the  comedian,  opening  the 
door  of  his  friend's  room,  "  your  Russian  prin- 
cess  " 

"  You  may  tell  me  to  shut  the  door  against 
her.  I  have  done  it,  but  Vera  has  twenty-four 
hours  every  day  to  herself  and  lots  of  millions 
for  her  whims.  She  finds  a  way  of  sending 
to  me,  through  the  keyhole  I  suppose,  flowers 
which  I  throw  away  and  letters  that  I  never 
read,  for  I  have  no  pen,  and  I  will  agree  to  do 
anything  except  write.  I  am  not  a  Jewish 
savior  of  Egypt,  although  the  part  that  I  am 
playing  is  as  ridiculous  as  was  his,  but  a  Prin- 
cess, a  woman  in  society — think  of  evening 
dress,  useless  phrases,  and  money  which  is  so 


62  Maxims  of  Art. 

necessary  for  stuffs,  models,  furniture  and  arms, 
and  armor  !  The  golden  pupils  of  her  eyes 
beseech  me  constantly ;  I  know  that  there  is 
for  me  no  respite  from  them.  I  think  that  I 
might  as  well  obey  her  and  work  after- 
wards !  " 

"  No,"  shouted  his  friend  in  a  tone  of 
anguish,  "for  '  afterward '  has  no  existence  in 
fact.  You  would  never  be  an  artist  again. 
Listen !  There  is  only  art,  the  rest  is  nothing. 
The  women  we  know  must  be,  as  we  are, 
strangers  to  the  world.  You  are  a  great  man, 
do  not  become  useless.     Promise  to  obey  me." 

The  painter  placed  himself  at  the  comedian's 
mercy.  The  latier  acquired  the  air,  the  face, 
and  the  expression  of  the  painter  so  exactly 
that  a  mother  would  have  been  deceived. 
Then  he  went  to  the  Russian  princess's  house. 
He  passed  through  drawing-rooms  ornamented 
with  carpets  of  the  Orient.  She  was  draped 
in  tender-colored  stuffs.  He  said  not  a  word. 
He  covered  her  with  kisses  more  numerous 
than  planets  in  a  starry  sky,  realizing  her  dream 
in  the  fullness  of  its  ambitious  programme, 
under  the  pale  light  of  an  alabaster  lamp. 


Maxims  of  Art.  63 

She  called  the  servant,  lighted  the  golden 
candelabra  and  looked  at  her  conqueror.  For 
an  instant  he  was  the  painter  still,  but  suddenly 
he  wished  to  be  the  comedian  again,  and  Vera 
had  a  fine  attack  of  rage,  anger,  and  violence. 
But  the  comedian  reasoned  with  her. 

"  My  friend  the  painter,"  he  said,  "  has  no 
time  to  express  anything  but  painting.  He 
has  a  world  in  his  head,  he  has  no  leisure  for 
love.  You  love  him;  prove  it  to  him — leave 
him  alone !  " 

David  de  La  GammCs 

CCVII. 

The  night  was  clear,  but  the  painter's  mind 
was  calmer  and  more  serene  than  the  white 
winter  night,  wherein  the  moonlight  and  the 
rays  of  the  stars  made  their  spirits  dance  on  the 
frozen  earth.  He  was  in  his  smiling  room, 
tapestried  with  stuffs  of  silk  and  of  wool,  with 
linen  and  velvet.  He  was  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair before  his  hearth  and  doing  absolutely 
nothing.  He  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  a  ciga- 
rette with  a  blue  crest  that  deserved  a  poem  in 
short  stanzas  printed  on  cigarette  paper. 


64  Maxims  of  Art. 

Everything  in  the  room  was  flaming :  statu- 
ettes, crystal  glasses,  and  vases  of  King-Te- 
Tchin.  He  nonchalantly  listened  to  the  do- 
mestic harmonies  as  if  he  were  at  the  opera  and 
had  not  to  take  the  trouble  to  applaud.  In  the 
flames  of  the  fire  sang  and  danced,  to  the  tune 
of  triangle  and  castanets,  a  Salamander  dressed 
in  gold  and  silver  stuffs  and  metallic  paper 
covered  with  all  sorts  of  spangles.  Her  jewels 
of  Venice,  her  glass  beads,  her  veils  of  pink  and 
blue  crepe  studded  with  tin  stars  turned  in  the 
dazzling  rainbows  of  the  coals. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said.  "  Really  !  I  am 
as  graceful  as  the  comets,  I  am  as  dazzling  as 
Fred  Mortimer's  prose,  and  I  sing  like  a  series 
of  triolets  threaded  with  pearls  in  a  necklace. 
I  love  you  because  you  truly  prefer  to  see  me 
dance  rather  than  to  look  at  Carmencita  in  the 
company  of  fifteen  hundred  fools.  This  is  to  be 
a  fairy  spectacle,  in  comparison  with  which  the 
spectacle  wherein  Amelia  Glover  danced  with 
thirty-two  thousand  diamonds  on  her,  not 
countmg  her  eyes,  was  insignificant  indeed. 
And  the  lighted  lanterns  in  fantastic  flames 
said: 


Maxims  of  Art.  65 

"  '  We  are  the  planets  and  the  stars  of  your 
home,  and  it  is  for  you  that  we  dance.  Our 
gowns  are  orange-colored  and  we  are  as  red  as 
cherries.  We  are  not  like  our  thin  sisters  who 
whiten  their  cheeks  to  please  Burne-Jones.  We 
love  you  because  you  are  wise  and  never, 
never  go  to  a  regimental  fair.'  " 

David  de  La  Gamnie. 

CCVIII. 

The  more  I  looked  at  it,  the  less  I  could 
detach  my  eyes  from  this  charming  face.  I 
could  not  say  how  profoundly  it  evoked  in  me 
ideas  of  profound  calmness,  of  painful  voluptu- 
ousness, of  mysterious  rest  in  a  room  embel- 
lished with  all  the  refinements  of  luxury  and  of 
elegance.  This  face  had  not  only  beauty,  but 
the  incisive  charm  of  strangeness  which  leads 
one  into  an  abyss  of  dreams.  Around  her  fore- 
head, which  was  low,  large,  and  powerfully 
modeled,  hair  of  Arachnean  fineness,  curled 
and  short  at  the  front  as  in  portraits  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  formed  a  golden  mist.  The 
eyes,  too  large,  of  burnished  gold,  framed  by 
large  eyebrows   rigorously  straight  and   by  a 


66  Maxims  of  Art. 

fringe  of  black  lashes,  showed  in  their  illumi- 
nated pupils  a  heaven  of  stars  and  of  magic 
sparks.  The  lips  were  of  unheard-of  beauty  and 
impressed  one  like  poems  of  joy. 

It  seemed  to  have  been  drawn,  not  with 
colors,  but  really  with  imagination  and  light,  for 
on  this  enchanted  canvas  nothing  revealed 
patient  successive  work  and  the  coarseness  of 
material  means.  It  was  an  impression  and  a 
painter's  vision. 

The  owner  tried  to  lead  me  to  other  paint- 
ings of  his  collection,  but  I  said,  "  No,  the 
masters  whose  works  are  gathered  in  your  gal- 
lery may  think  what  they  wish.  I  declare,  in 
advance,  without  having  seen  them,  that  this 
face  is  greater  than  all  their  works.  Imagine  a 
man  who  has  read  the  psalm  of  psalms  and  to 
whom  you  offered  another  poem  by  some  un- 
known versifier.  Do  you  think  he  would  ex- 
change for  it  his  vision  of  beating  wings, 
towers  of  ivory,  roses  in  bloom,  tall  lilies,  lov- 
ing forms,  and  perfumes  among  cedar-wood 
furniture  and  stuffs  ornamented  with  embroid- 
ery? " 

"  But   my    Rembrandt,   my    Hobbema,   my 


Maxims  of  Art.  67 

authentic  Raphael,  my  Murillo,  which  all  the 
museums  of  Europe  envy " 

"  Have  no  existence  in  fact,"  I  said.  "  The 
painter  of  this  portrait  was  twenty  years  of  age 
it  is  evident." 

"  He  was  in  love,  somebody  loved  him,  the 
great  cry  of  the  poets  carried  his  mind  in  the 
stars,  the  admiration  of  the  masters  transported 
him  with  patient  fervor.  At  this  moment  there 
was  not  a  human  fear  which  he  could  not  have 
chased  like  a  pearl  in  the  most  precious  carv- 
ings. Alas,  he  is  to-day  bald-headed,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  and  I 
suppose  that  he  paints  battles  of  Fredericks- 
burg as  large  as  a  table  of  forty  covers. 

"  Yes,  the  story  of  his  life  is  as  ordinary, 
but  it  deserves  to  be  told,  because  it  demon- 
strates the  infirmity  of  incomplete  genius, 
wherein  the  creative  faculty  does  not  reign 
absolutely  like  a  tyrannical  queen." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "the  Muse  of  painting  is  the 
most  jealous,  the  most  intolerant  of  mistresses. 
She  does  not  want  hearts  that  do  not  belong  to 
her  entire.  The  gift  of  conceiving  and  of 
translating  the  beautiful  is  incompatible  with 


68  Maxims  of  Art. 

all  human  passion,  for  everything  human  is 
imperfect  and  the  objects  of  our  desires  attract 
us  by  their  imperfections;  that  is  why  our 
mind  loses  in  vain  attachments  the  power  to 
rise  to  immortal  beauty,  immortal  beauty  which 
suffers  no  contact  with  the  material.  I  suppose 
that  your  artist  fell  in  love'?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  he  was  an  artist  and  yet 
he  fell  in  love." 

David  de  La  Gafjime. 


Individually  the  arts  have  produced  so  many 
masterpieces  that  they  seem  to  be  exhausted. 
Alberic  Magnard. 

ccx. 

Only  a  revolution  like  the  invasion  of  the 
barbarians  in  the  Roman  Empire  could  vivify 
every  eesthetic  passion  by  destroying  works  and 
traditions. 

md. 

CCXI. 
It  is  in  the  arts  themselves,  as  they  exist, 


Maxims  of  Art.  69 

that  we  must  find  the  elements  to  rejuvenate 
them. 

Albh'ic  Magnard. 

CCXII. 

The  characteristic  of  young  schools  is  appar- 
ently an  effort  toward  complex  forms,  express- 
ing sensations  and  ideas  of  different  sesthetic 
order. 

Ibid. 

CCXIII. 

Most  reformers  in  art  are  lacking  in  general 
ideas.  They  ask  of  isolated  arts  and  not  of  as- 
sociated arts  a  synthetic  significance. 

Ibid. 

CCXIV. 

Nowadays  musicians  exhaust  themselves  in 
literary  effects,  poets  in  effects  of  color  or 
music. 

Ibid 

ccxv. 

Music  is  an  abstract  art, .  formulating  only 
very  general  ideas  and  sentiments,  like  swift- 


70  Maxims  of  Art. 

ness,  slowness,  calmness,  pain,  joy,  and  suffer- 
ing. 

A  Iberic  Magnard. 

ccxvi. 

Do  not  confound  art  with  the  sensations  and 
the  thoughts  that  give  it  birlh. 

Ibid. 

CCXVII. 

The  plastic  effects  of  music  are  puerile. 

Ibid. 

CCXVIII. 

There  is  no  dramatic  expression  in  music. 

Ibid 


Synthesis  of  the  arts  is  impracticable  under  a 
strictly  musical  form. 

Ibid. 

ccxx. 

Painting  is  a  concrete  plastic  art,  subject  to 
imitation  of  visible  nature  or  to  elements  bor- 
rowed from  nature. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  7 1 

CCXXI. 

Synthesis   of  the   arts   is  impossible  under 

forms  purely  plastic,  musical,  or  literary  ;  but 

it  is  logical  in  complex  forms  resulting  from  an 

association  of  music,  plastic  art,  and  literature. 

A Ib'eric  Mannar d. 


To  make  symphonic  poems  intelligible, 
there  should  be  in  the  orchestra  a  personage 
placed  there  for  the  special  purpose  of  indicat- 
ing at  every  moment  the  intentions  of  the 
musician. 

Ibid. 

CCXXIII. 

The  symphonic  poem  cannot  escape  the  fol- 
lowing dilemma  :  it  is  dramatic  music  and  its 
programme  is  insufficient,  or  it  is  pure  music 
and  its  programme  is  useless. 

Ibid. 

CCXXIV. 

The  lyrical  drama  is  to-day  the  most  com- 
plete form  of  synthetic  art  and  the  only  one 


72  Maxims  of  Art. 

which  permits  the  fusion  of  words,  sounds,  and 
colors. 

Alb'eric  Magnard. 


Something  stupefying  and  grotesque.  Now- 
adays all  women  are  alike,  the  good,  the  bad, 
the  sublime,  the  mediocre,  and  the  worse. 
They  are  painted,  dyed,  dressed,  tattooed,  and 
colored  by  the  same  ignoble  artifices,  and  as 
one  always  gets  the  love  that  one  deserves, 
they  all  have  the  same  loves,  the  loves  that 
may  be  inspired  by  rouge,  blue  pencil,  and 
pomade. 

Theodore  de  Banville. 

CCXXVI. 
Whether   one   be   an    idealist   or   a  realist, 
whether  one  prefer  antiquity  or  the  middle  age, 
none  may  refuse  to  recognize  works  of  art  in  a 
Greek  temple  and  in  a  Gothic  cathedral. 

C  BayeL 
CCXXVII. 

To  compose  is  to  coordinate  the  elements  of 
a  work  and,  in  general,  adapt  it  to  the  needs 


Maxims  of  Art,  73 

which  it  must  satisfy  and  to  the  ideas  and  sen- 
timents which  it  must  translate. 

a  Bayet. 

CCXXVIII. 
The  execution  of  a  work  of  art  depends  on 
the  education  which  the  artist  has  received  and 
on  the  natural  qualities  which  he  possesses. 

Ibid. 


Style  may  be  at  one  time  the  ethnic,  chron- 
ologic, and  personal  characteristic  of  a  work  of 

art. 

Ibid. 

ccxxx. 

Works  of  art,  like  all  human  phenomena, 
are  too  complex  for  the  application  of  the  rig- 
orous processes  of  chemical  analysis. 

Ibid. 

CCXXXI. 

The  history  of  art  presents  a  continuous  se- 
ries of  actions  and  of  reactions. 

Ibid 


74  Maxims  of  Art. 


A  man  does  not  understand  art  until  he  has 
reached  middle  age. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCXXXIII. 

Success  belongs  oftenest  to  mediocrity. 

Ibid. 


There  are  no  prodigies  in  the  art  of  painting. 

Ibid. 

ccxxxv. 

Learn  to  draw  with  your  brush. 

Ibid. 

CCXXXVI, 

Colorists  love  music. 

Ibid. 

CCXXXVII. 

Be  a  man  of  your  time,  subject  to  your  envi- 
ronment. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art,  75 


CCXXXVIII. 


Fine  colors  are  indispensable  to  fine  pictures. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


CCXXXIX. 

One  may  not  judge  of  the  greatness  of  a 
work  by  its  dimensions. 

Ibid. 

CCXL. 

You  cannot  judge  of  the  value  of  a  girl  by 
her  height. 

David  de  La  Gamme. 


CCXLI. 

Do  not   confound  great  workers  with  ordi- 
nary plodders. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCXLII. 

Painters  who  think  they  are  gods  in  art  dis- 
play weakness. 

Ibid. 


76  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCXLIII. 


Give  a  nail's  breadth  of  yourself  rather  than 
an  arm's  length  of  somebody  else. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


All  in  painting  is  contrast,  color  as  well  as 
drawing. 

Ibid. 

CCXLV. 

To  be  a  great  painter  you  must  be  a  great 
workman. 

Ibid. 


CCXLVI. 

A  subject  is  not  necessary  to  a  painting. 

Ibid 


CCXLVII. 

Pictures  should  not  need  literary  descriptions. 

Ibid, 


Maxims  of  Art.  77 


The  style  of  the  painter  is  execution, 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCXLIX, 

.There  are  offensive  talents  which  appear  to 
be  saying  perpetually,  *'  Behold  us." 

Ibid. 

CCL. 
You  pardon  the  faults  of  the  Dutch  masters 
because  they  apparently  say,  "  I  have  done  my 
best.     I  vi^ish  that  I  could  have  done  better." 

Ibid. 

CCLI. 

To  the  painter  of  nature  nothing  but  the  true 
is  permitted. 

Ibid. 

CCLII. 

Formulate  aesthetically,  do  not  imitate  ser- 
vilely. 

Ibid. 


78  Maxims  of  Art. 


However  mediocre  he  may  be,  the  painter 
who  reproduces  the  era  in  which  he  hves  will 
be  more  interesting  in  time  than  the  one  who 
tries  to  reproduce  an  epoch  which  he  has  not 
seen. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


If  your  picture  is  that  of  a  blonde  and  the 
buyer's  wife  is  a  brunette,  your  picture  will 
run  the  risk  of  staying  for  a  long  time  in  your 
studio. 

Ibid. 

CCLV. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  paint  maturity  than 
childhood  or  old  age. 

Ibid. 

CCLVI. 

Samothrace's  "Victory,"  which  is  in  the 
Louvre,  headless  and  armless,  is  as  heroic  as 
the  bas-relief  by  Rude  on  the  Arc  de  Triomphe. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  79 

CCLVII. 

Admiration  inspired  by  insincere  artists  will 
not  last. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCLVIII. 

Paint  what  you  see,  what  has  just  affected 
you ;  do  not  live  on  memories. 

Ibid. 

CCLIX. 

The  more  elevated  one  is  in  art,  the  less  one 
is  understood. 

Ibid. 


The    more    distinguished    the    subject   the 
harder  it  is  to  paint. 

Ibid. 

CCLXI. 

The  soul  of  the  painter  gives  its  imprint  to 
all  his  work. 

Ibid, 


8o  Maxims  of  Art. 


Time  is  an  infallible  classifier. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


Paintings  of   cows    and   sheep  have   always 
brought  higher  prices  than  pictures  of  horses. 

Ibid. 

CCLXIV. 

One  may  not  be  just  about  a  picture  until  ten 
years  after  its  execution. 

Ibid. 

CCLXV. 

Nothing  is  so  difficult  as  easel  painting. 

Ibid. 

\ 

CCLXVI. 

The  work  of  the  painter  is  constant. 

Ibid. 

CCLXVII. 

Painters  of  their  own  time  are  historians. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  8i 


Atmosphere  in  an  interior  is  more  difficult  to 
paint  than  open  air. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


CCLXIX. 

Old  masters  painted  their  own  epoch. 

CCLXX. 


Ibid. 


The  more  one  knows  the  simpler  one  is. 

Ibid 


The  painter  who  obtains  approval  of  only 
women  is  lost. 

Ibid 

CCLXXII. 

You  may  judge  of  the  sentiment  of  an  artist 
by  a  flower  which  he  has  painted. 

Ibid. 


82  Maxims  of  Art, 


ccLxxm. 

The  one  who  does  not  know  how  to  paint  a 
lemon  on  a  Japanese  plate  is  not  a  delicate 
colorist. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCLXXIV. 

There   is   as   much   expression   in  a  man's 

hand  as  in  his  face. 

Ibid. 


CCLXXV. 

Painters  who  do  not  use  nature  weary  the 
public. 

Ibid. 

CCLXXVI. 

It   is  an  art  in  painting  to  know  when  to 
stop. 

3id. 

CCLXXVII. 

Ignorant  men  always  display  a  great  deal  of 
knowledge. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  83 

CCLXXVIII. 

If  you  have  unexpectedly  done  well  attri- 
bute your  success  to  the  effect  of  previous  study. 
Alfred  Stevens. 

CCl-XXIX. 

Let  the  sitter  for  a  portrait  take  an  habitual 
pose  and  do  not  strive  for  effect  by  making  hira 
take  an  unusual  one. 

Ibid. 

CCLXXX. 

The  tendency  of  art  critics  is  to  be  preoccu- 
pied more  by  the  literary  than  the  technical 
elements  of  pictures. 

Ibid. 

CCLXXXI. 

The  public  likes  pictures  in  which  hard 
work  is  visible. 

Ibid. 


The  public  likes  to  get  its  money's  worth. 

Ibid. 


84  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCLXXXIII. 

In  painting  be  a  painter  first,  a  thinker  after- 
ward. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCLXXXIV. 

Every  painter,  however  bad,  has  his  public. 

Ibid. 

CCLXXXV. 

Please  yourself  before  thinking  of  pleasing 

the  public. 

Ibid. 

CCLXXXVI. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  paint  smiles  than  tears. 

Ibid. 

CCLXXXVII. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  paint  a  young  girl  than 
an  old  woman. 

Ibid. 

CCLXXXVIII. 

Everything  everywhere  is  beautiful. 

Ibid 


Maxims  of  Art.  85 

CCLXXXIX. 

It  is  preferable  to  paint  a  blonde  because  her 
hair  will  blend  more  harmoniously  with  the 
skin  than  the  hair  of  a  brunette. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


A  picture  should  not  appear  to  stand  out  of 
its  frame. 

Ibid. 


Early  masters  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  be- 
fore painting. 

Ibid 

CCXCII. 

The  greatest  difficulty  in  art  is  the  nude. 

Ibid 

CCXCIII. 

It  is  easier  to  paint  a  woman  than  a  man. 

Ibid 


S6  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCXCIV. 


An    old  shoe   is  more    picturesque   than   a 
fashionable  man's  dancing  shoe. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


ccxcv. 
God's  masterpiece  is  the  human  face. 


Ibid. 


CCXCVI. 

A  woman's  glance  is  more  attractive  than  a 
ray  of  sunlight% 

Ibid. 

cckcvii. 

In  France,  where  fashion  leads  everything, 
even  in  the  art  of  painting,  there  are  fashion- 
able tones. 

Ibid. 

CCXCVIII. 
Art  would  not  be  art  if  it  did  not  pass  over 
the  heads  of  the  vulgar. 

Ibid 


Maxims  of  Art,  87 

CCXCIX, 

Artists  whose  value  was  disputed  are  not 
better  appreciated  now  than  they  were  before ; 
but  as  their  works  have  much  value  in  money, 
followers  flock  after  them. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

ccc. 

Adverse  criticism  of  one  who  knows  is  more 
flattering  than  praise  of  one  who  is  ignorant. 

Ibid. 

CCCI. 

Violence  is  not  vigor. 

Ibid. 

CCCII. 

Time  makes  beautiful  painting  more  beauti- 
ful and  bad  painting  worse. 

Ibid. 

CCCIII. 

Bad  painting  cracks  in  the  form  of  the  sun. 
ccciv. 

Flies  respect  good  painting. 

Ibid. 


88  Maxims  of  Art. 

cccv. 

Do  not  paint  religious  subjects  if  you  have 
no  faith. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


cccvi. 

Great  colorists,  in  general,  were"!born  on  the 
seashore. 

Ibid. 


CCCVII. 

At  high  noon  the  sun  is  an  anti-colorist. 

Ibid. 

CCCVIII. 

The  moon  beautifies  everything. 

Ibid. 


CCCIX. 

When   people   ceased    to   take   interest    in 
painting,  historical  subjects  were  invented. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  89 

cccx. 

Japanese  art  is  a  great  element  of  modern 
art. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


CCCX  I. 
All  is  love  in  Japanese  art. 

CCCXII. 
The  Japanese  are  real  impressionists. 

CCCXIII. 


Ibid. 


Ibid. 


Paint  a  peasant  and  you  are  a  thinker ;  paint 
a  society  woman  and  you  are  a  fashionable 
painter.  Why?  A  fashionable  woman  looks 
at  the  sky  oftener  than  a  peasant. 

Ibid. 

CCCXIV. 

There  is  a  moment  when  the  painter  should 
not  allow  himself  to  be  dominated  by  nature. 

Ibid. 


90  Maxims  of  Art. 

cccxv. 

The  invention  of  photography  has  revolu- 
tionized art  as  railroads  have  revolutionized 
industry. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

cccxvi. 

Independent  artists  have  audacity. 

IbU. 

CCCXVII. 

Do  not  make  a  model  pose  for  the  hands  of 
a  portrait.     It  is  bad  faith. 

Ibid. 


CCCXVIII. 

You  are  not  a  modern  artist  because  you 
paint  modern  costumes,  but  because  you  have 
modem  sensations. 

Ibid. 

CCCXIX. 

Masterpieces  are  simple. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  91 


cccxx. 
Great  artists  are  good  critics. 

cccxxi. 


Alfred  Stevens. 


Portrait  painting  is  perhaps  the  finest  of  all 
painting. 

Ibid. 

CCCXXII. 

Painters,  express  yourselves  in  your  work  ! 

Ibid. 

CCCXXIII. 

Art  is  aristocratic. 

Ibid. 

CCCXXIV. 
Draughtsmen  are  born,  not  made. 

cccxxv. 

Art  counts  for  nothing  at  popular  exhibitions. 

Ibid. 


Ibid. 


92  Maxims  of  Art, 


A  spark  of  light   by  a  Dutch  master  is  a 
stroke  of  intellect. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCXXVII. 

It  is  easier  to  draw  a  violent  than  a  simple 
movement. 

Ibid. 

CCCXXVIII. 

Nothing  is  as  useful  as  comparison. 

Ibid. 


By  the  palette  of  a  painter  one  may  know 
what  he  is. 

Ibid. 

cccxxx. 

In  our  time  talent  runs  about  the   streets, 
genius  is  rarer  than  ever. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  93 


A  badly  built  man  was  never  a  master  in  the 
plastic  arts. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCXXXII. 

A  fine  picture  admired  at  a  distance  should 
bear  close  analysis. 

Ibid. 


CCCXXXIII. 

There  are  pictures  full  of  talent  which  should 
be  hung  in  the  anteroom. 

Ibid. 

cccxxxiv. 

Do  not  depict  a  winter  subject  in  summer. 

Ibid. 

cccxxxv. 

Good  pictures  should  be  in  good  company. 

Ibid, 


94  Maxims  of  Art. 

CCCXXXVI. 

One  has  to  learn  to  see,  as  in  music  one  has 
to  learn  to  hear.  Those  who  say,  "  I  have 
never  seen  nature  like  this,"  often  mean  that 
they  have  not  the  intelligence  of  the  artist. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


CCCXXXVII. 

Three  or  five  would  be  a  sufficient  number 
of  members  for  any  jury. 

Ibid. 

CCCXXXVIII. 

Study  and  interpret  the  masters,  but  do  not 
try  to  imitate  them. 

Ibid. 

CCCXXXIX. 

Painters  should  sometimes  consult  sculptors. 

Ibid. 

CCCXL. 
It  is  wrong  for   a  painter  to   abandon  the 


Maxims  of  Art,  95 

country  in  which  he  was  bom  and  in  which  he 
passed  his  youth. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCXLI. 

Studies  may  almost  always  be  found  superior 
to  finished  works. 

Ibid. 


CCCXLII, 

Everything  requires  study. 

Ibid. 


An  artist  should  never  lose  his  primitive  sim- 
plicity. 

Ibid 

CCCXLIV. 

An  artist  never  acquires  suppleness  until  he 
fully  possesses  his  art. 

Ibid. 


96  Maxims  of  Art. 


Painting  is  nature  seen  through  the  prism  of 
an  emotion. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


CCCXLVI. 

Do  not  let  students  draw  from  memory. 

Ibid. 


CCCXLVII. 

Comfort  is  injurious  to  art. 

Ibid. 


CCCXLVIII. 

A  fine  painting  is  agreeable  to  the  touch. 

Ibid. 


CCCXLIX. 

A  true  painter  is  a  thinker. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  97 

CCCL. 

Masters  have  not  always  produced  master- 
pieces. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCLI. 

Do  not  allow  your  brain  to  be  dominated  by 
the  dexterity  of  your  hand, 

Ibid. 


CCCLII. 

The  public  confounds  romance  with  poetry. 

Ibid. 


CCCLIII. 

The  public  likes  subjects  in  costumes. 

Ibid. 

CCCLIV. 

Charcoal  is  a  flatterer. 

Ibid 


98  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCCLV. 


Born  painters  never  believe  that  they  have 
succeeded. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


CCCLVI. 
Avoid  beautifying  models. 

CCCLVII. 


Jiid. 


Reputations  are  easily  acquired,  but  not  easily 
made  lasting. 

Ibid. 

CCCLVIII. 

Old  Europe  will  some  day  accept  an  artistic 
renaissance  from  young  America. 

Ibid. 

CCCLIX. 

If  you  live  in  Paris  you  cannot  paint  flesh 
like  Rubens. 

3id. 


Maxims  of  Art.  99 

CCCLX. 

Each  country  gives  an  individual  charm  to 
woman. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCLXI. 

There  is  no  grace  without  strength. 

Ibid. 


CCCLXII. 

The  time  will  come  when  Germans  will  be 
prouder  of  Albert  Diirer  than  of  the  great 
Frederick. 

Ibid. 


A  painter  is  rarer  than  a  man  of  learning. 

Ibid, 

CCCLX  IV. 

Men  of  elevated  taste  are  rarer  than  men  of 
talent. 

Ibid, 


loo  Maxims  of  Art, 


Teachers  should  discover  and  develop  apti- 
t  des  of  students. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCLXVI. 

Do  not  encourage  too  much  the  art  of  paint- 
ing ;  rather  discourage  it. 

Ibid. 


It  is  a  crime  to  retouch  a  master's  painting. 

Ibid. 

CCCLXVIII. 

A  book  or  music  may  provoke  tears ;  never 
picture  or  a  piece  of  statuary. 

Ibid. 

CCCLXIX. 

Painting  is  not  made  for  exhibitions. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  i  o  i 


CCCLXX. 


Painting  is  not  a  way  to  wealth 

Alfred  Stevens. 


It  is  difficult  to  preserve  a  great  reputation 
when  one's  works  are  not  numerous. 

Ibid. 


To  live  many  years  and  to  preserve  always 
celebrity  as  an  artist  in  painting  seems  to  me  to 
be  almost  an  impossibility. 

Ibid. 


CCCLXXIII. 

Lament  a  painter  who  lives  too  long  for  his 
art. 

Ibid. 


Do  not  paint  continually  in  your  studio. 

Ibid. 


I02  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCCLXXV. 


Fine  painting  ought  to  withstand  the  mag- 
nifying glass. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


CCCLXXVI. 
Painters  should  know  chemistry. 

CCCLXXVII. 


Ibid. 


What  a  disquieting  and  capricious  thing  is 
painting. 

Ibid. 


CCCLXXVIII. 

In  our  day  sculpture  is  perhaps  superior  to 
painting. 

Ibid. 


CCCLXXIX. 

Art  is  jealous  and  will  not  forgive  a  moment 
of  forgetfulness. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  i  o  3 


CCCI.XXX. 

Serve  art  or  letters. 


Alfred  Stevens. 


CCCLXXXI. 
POSING   FOR    HANDS. 

One   may   not   see   hearts.      If   one  could, 

Mrs. would  seem  more  strange  than  if  she 

walked  in  Broadway  among  the  cable  cars  in 
clothes  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Twenty-four 
years  of  age,  young,  beautiful,  charming,  rich, 
honored,  a  widow,  her  blue  eyes  fringed  with 
long  eyelashes  and  her  hair  unimproved  by  any 
artifice,  she  is  not  a  member  of  fashionable  so- 
ciety and  she  never  goes  to  teas.  Although 
joyful,  and  not  pedantic,  she  is  a  fanatic  in  art 
and  stays  at  home  to  play  beautiful  music  or  to 
read  Shakespeare.  By  virtue  of  an  order  of 
ideas  which  has  been  abolished,  love  is  in  her 
view  inseparable  from  admiration,  and  she  has 
all  the  traits  of  Lucrezia  Floriani  except  the 
latter' s  inability  to  fall  in  love.  So,  she  is  an 
anachronism  in  flesh  and  bones,  but  in  bones  so 
well  proportioned  and  in  flesh  so  beautiful  that 


I04  Maxims  of  Art. 


one  is  forced  to  forgive  her  lack  of  realistic 
exactitude. 

She  saw  so  many  paintings  by  Case  at  the 
club  exhibitions  that  she  fell  in  love,  not  only 
with  his  paintings,  but  with  the  artist  himself. 
In  his  grand  historic  figures  she  admired  not 
only  the  tragic  scenes,  the  beauties  of  composi- 
tion, the  personages  evoked  with  rare  power; 
in  his  portraits,  she  saw  not  only  the  noble  in- 
timacy of  the  faces,  the  sincerity  of  the  atti- 
tudes, and  the  power  of  intuition  with  which 
the  artist  had  interpreted  feminine  grace ;  but 
she  particularly  admired  the  adorable  colors, 
the  shivering  blues  and  the  singing  symphonies. 

While  she  relished  the  spectacle  which 
these  flowers  of  light  created,  she  felt  that  she 
was  the  friend  of  the  artist  who  had  made  them 
bloom  under  his  magic  fingers.  She  wished 
to  say  to  him  that  she  was  his  friend,  and  she 
wrote  him  a  letter  bravely  signed  with  her  real 
name.  But  she  received  no  answer  to  this  let- 
ter, nor  to  the  others  which  followed  it ;  and 
as  she  was  not  a  woman  that  circumstances 
could  tame,  she  put  on  a  gown  which  would 
have  dazzled  the  gods  and  went  to  Washington 


Maxims  of  Art.  105 

Square,  She  stopped  her  carnage  near  the  arch 
and  walked  quickly  to  the  hall  wherein  the 
painter  produces  his  great  Oriental  massacres. 

She  was  received  at  the  door  by  the  young 
model,  Furness,  who  perhaps  owes  his  name 
to  his  hair,  redder  than  blazing  coals. 

"  Madam,"  he  said  quickly,  "  come  in.  The 
master  is  waiting  for  you.  What  name  shall  I 
say  ?  " 

Without  stopping  to  observe  how  contradic- 
tory the  two  periods  of  his  phrase  perhaps  were, 
Mrs. followed  her  guide.  But  it  is  nec- 
essary to  say  what  tempest  agitated  the  vast 

studio  and  in  what  frame  of  mind   Mrs. 

was  to  find  the  painter. 

The  day  before  he  had  almost  finished  the 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Elliott,  whose  beauty  has  al- 
ways moved  New  York.  The  portrait  lacked 
only  the  hands,  that  is,  everything ;  and  the 
lady  could  not  pose  for  the  hands  because  she 
had  to  give  a  dinner  and  call  on  her  tailor. 
The  painter  had  obtained  the  promise  of  a  sit- 
ting from  Laura  Antoni,  the  only  model  who 
can  give  to  a  painter  hands  of  a  patrician  that 
are   at  all   presentable.     He  expected  her  at 


I  o  6  Maxims  of  Art. 

8  A.  M.  At  8:30  he  had  already  reached  the 
last  extreme  of  impatience.  A  messenger  ar- 
rived with  a  letter  from  Laura,  who  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  write  her  name  in  large  let- 
ters on  the  envelope.  The  painter  handed  the 
letter  to  Fumess  and  said,  "  Read  quickly  and 
tell  me  in  two  words  what  it  means.  Is 
Antoni  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  she  is  well,  but  she  does  not  want  to 
come  here,"  Furness  said,  "  She  thinks  that 
Washington  Square  is  not  fashionable  enough. 
Hereafter  she  will  pose  only  in  the  vicinity  of 
Fifty-seventh  Street.  She  is  one  of  the  sort  of 
people  who  want  to  be  emperors  of  the  Occi- 
dent." 

"  One  thousand  million  brushes  !  "  exrlaimed 
the  painter.  "  The  hands,  the  portrait,  my 
^5,000,  my  time !  It  does  not  matter.  Lf  t  us 
work." 

He  furiously  painted  on  a  tall  canvas  cui- 
rasses of  bronze  and  blood-red  cloaks.  Then  he 
stuffed  his  pipe,  lit  it,  took  two  or  three  puffs, 
placed  it  on  the  piano,  sat  and  drew  from  the 
instrument  a  tempest  of  sounds  which  struck 
with  terror  the  solemn  silence.     Furness,  pale 


Maxims  of  Art.  i  o  7 

with  fright,  sat  on  the  floor  and  copied  a  plas- 
ter cast. 

*'  Listen,"  said  the  painter.  "  Although  it  is 
impossible,  if  the  gods  wish  it  may  happen 
that  a  woman  may  come  whose  hands  may  be 
like  those  of  Mrs.  Elliott." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Furness,  "  it  is  quite  im- 
possible .  .  .  and  even  probable !  At  all 
events  I  shall  admit  every  woman  of  distinc- 
tion   .    .    .    without  distinction." 

The  bell  rang,  he  went  to  the  door,  came 
back  and  announced  Mrs. .  With  uncon- 
cealed curiosity  she  looked  at  the  painter, 
anxious  to  know  if  he  resembled  his  work. 
She  admired  his  clear  eyes,  his  firm  mouth,  his 
honest  and  brave  air.  At  once  she  knew  that 
she  was  subdued ;  and  it  was  lucky  that  she 
knew,  although  she  was  not  easily  astonished, 
because  if  she  had  not  known  she  would  have 
been  shocked  by  the  manner  of  the  painter,  who 
looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence  and  said 
in  a  voice  which  sounded  to  her  like  delicious 
music,  "  Take  off  your  gloves  !  " 

She  took  off  her  gloves.  He  admired  her 
hands,  long,  fine,  pure,  transparent,  with  nails 


io8  Maxims  of  Art. 

which  were  as  pink  as  pinks.  He  said  noth- 
ing, but  he  seemed  to  be,  and  he  was  in  fact, 
in  an  ecstasy  of  joy.  He  offered  a  chair  to  her, 
placed  a  cushion  under  her  feet,  and  arranged 
her  hands  with  infinite  care  in  the  pose  that  he 
required.  Then  he  went  before  his  easel  and 
began  to  paint  with  an  inspiration  full  of  cer- 
tainty. Gifted  with  the  best  quality  of  fem- 
inine instinct,  and  understanding  that  she  was 
not  to  understand,  she  kept  silent  for  an  hotir. 
At  last  she  saw  that  the  painter  was  less  ardu- 
ous at  his  work,  and  looking  at  him  with  her 
eyes,  which  were  full  of  sparks  of  gold,  she 
asked,  "  May  I  talk  ?  " 

"  You  may  if  you  wish,"  he  said,  "  for  your 
voice  is  celestial.  If  I  were  you,  however,  I 
would  not  talk.  What  words  could  you  utter 
which  would  be  worth  the  accents  of  your  eyes 
and  of  your  lips?  When  nature  makes 
masterpieces  like  these,  she  dispenses  them 
from  explaining  themselves.  They  are  like 
good  drawings  which  do  not  require  titles." 

"  Did  you  read  my  letters  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Your  letters  ?  We  shall  talk  of  this  later," 
he  said,  "  in  five  minutes." 


Maxims  of  A rt.  109 

He  painted  quickly  and  in  five  minutes 
said  to  her,  "  Now  rest  a  little,  if  you  wish." 
She  stood  before  the  canvas  and  exclaimed, 
"  This  woman  will  be  immortal,  but  I  see 
that  you  have  given  my  hands  to  Mrs.  El- 
liott." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  the  painter  replied.  "  We 
were  more  generous  than  heaven,  for  the  hands 
that  we  have  given  are  handsomer  than  Mrs. 
Elliott's  hands.  Is  it  not  intensely  agreeable 
to  be  like  the  sun,  which  gilds  and  transfigures 
objects  that  have  no  interest  ?  " 

"  But  my  letters  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  opened  a  desk  covered  with  inlayings  of 
shell  and  mother  of  pearl  and  handed  to  her  a 
package  of  letters. 

"What!  You  have  not  read  them !"  she 
exclaimed. 

"  No,  madam,  I  never  read  a  letter,  for  if  I 
read  letters  I  might  wish  to  write  some.  After- 
ward I  might  wish  to  rewrite  the  Iliad.  I 
shall  open  my  heart  to  you,  not  as  to  a  sister, 
for  one  never  says  anything  to  one's  sister,  but 
as  to  a  creature  chosen  among  all  others.  I 
wish  to  paint  not  the  ancient  conventionalities 


no  Maxims  of  Art. 

of  schools,  but  history  as  Shakespeare  saw  it. 
I  am  a  stone-breaker  on  the  highway.  I  do 
not  sleep,  I  do  not  eat,  I  have  no  amusement 
of  any  sort.  Do  you  think  that  I  can  find  time 
for  literature?  " 

"  But,"  she  murmured,  "  will  you  never  know 
what  love  is  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  he  said  in  anger,  "I  shall 
never  know  ;  for  painting  is  an  art,  love  is 
another,  and  one  of  the  two  is  enough  to 
fill  a  man's  life.  Suppose  for  an  instant  I 
should  be  loved  by  a  woman  such  as  you  ! 
To  build  a  nest  worthy  of  her,  to  clothe  her 
with  stuffs  created  for  her,  to  adore  her,  amuse 
her,  kiss  her  hands,  fall  in  ecstasy,  be  jeal- 
ous, admire  masterpieces  in  her  company, 
lead  her  into  forests  of  flowers — would  these 
things  not  be  enough  to  occupy  every  second 
of  my  life  ?  But  your  hands  are  not  yet 
finished ;  let  us  work  a  little  more,  if  you 
please." 

"I  am  willing,"   said  Mrs.  ,  who   sat 

while  the  painter  took  his  brushes ;  "  but  speak 
to  me." 

*'  I  have  known,  madam,   all   the   illusions 


Maxims  of  Art.  1 1 1 

that  have  an  influence  over  artists,"  said  the 
painter.  "  I  have  had  success,  honors,  great 
orders ;  but  I  am  a  very  poor  pupil.  You 
asked  if  I  were  never  to  know^  love.  I  know 
Painting.  She  never  yields.  She  escapes  like 
Galatea,  not  under  the  willows,  but  I  know 
not  where.  My  colors  are  enthusiastically 
admired,  but  I  look  at  a  corner  of  the  sky,  at 
living  flesh,  at  a  piece  of  stuff,  and  I  find  that 
my  colors  are  dirty.  You  may  rest  now.  I 
have  finished." 

"  These  hands  are  a  pure  masterpiece,"  said 

Mrs.  ;  "  they  live,  they  breathe,  they  were 

made  with  light.  What  master  ever  did 
better  ?  " 

"To-day,  madam,"  he  said,  "I  worked 
under  exceptional  conditions.  Even  the  gods 
of  art  may  not  have  models  like  you." 

"  Meanwhile,"  she  said  with  an  arch  expres- 
sion, "you  owe  me  for  my  sitting." 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said.  "  It  is  too  late  for 
more  work,  and  as  my  cook,  who  resembles 
Michael  Angelo's  Sybils,  says,  '  You  shall  be 
entirely  satisfied.'  " 

David  de  La  Ganune. 


112  Maxims  of  Art. 

CCCLXXXII. 

To  scrape  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  is  a  crime, 
but  it  is  well  to  cleanse  Notre  Dame  de 
Lorette. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCLXXXIII. 

Many  painters  stop  where  obstacles  begin. 

Ibid. 

CCCLXXXIV, 

The  painter  should  economize  all  the  heat  of 
his  temperament  until  the  last  stroke  of  his 
brush. 

IHd. 


CCCLXXXV. 

Paint  nobody's  portrait  for  nothing.  I'he 
person  who  sits  for  it  will  never  defend  it  from 
adverse  criticism. 

Ibid. 


Maxim s  of  Art.  113 

CCCLXXXVI. 

Virtuosity  should  not  be  confounded  with 
trickery. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

CCCLXXXVII. 

The  Dutch  and  Flemish  painters  are  the 
greatest  in  the  world. 

Ibid. 

CCCLXXXVIII. 

Great  painters,  more  than  great  writers,  great 
musicians,  or  great  sculptors,  are  qualified  to 
understand  the  other  arts. 

Ibid. 

CCCLXXXIX. 

Some  painters  useful  to  others  are  of  no  use 
to  themselves. 

Ibid. 


A   painting  which    produces   an  illusion  of 
reality  is  an  artistic  lie. 

Ibid. 


114  Maxims  of  Art. 

CCCXCI. 
Each  country  should  have  its  pictorial  mark. 
Alfred  Stevens. 


At  a  cattle  show  the  public  prefers  the  five- 
footed  ox. 

Ibid. 


English  art  is  a  free  art  and  by  reason  of  its 
liberty  infinitely  varied,  full  of  surprises  and  of 
unexpected  initiative. 

Ernest  Chesneau. 

CCCXCIV. 

The  only  great  art  of  painting  of  the  English 
school  is  portrait  painting. 

Ibid. 

cccxcv. 

The  only  rule  of  great  artists  is  as  follows  : 
Judge  the  past  and  forget  it. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  115 

CCCXCVI. 

The  most  necessary  quality  of  the  ambitious 
in  art  is  patience. 

Alfred  Stevens. 

.  CCCXCVII. 

You  shall  be  mistaken  in  art  if  you  look  only 
at  your  own  mind. 

Ihid. 

CCCXCVIII. 

To  know  is  the  only  basis  of  infallibility  in 
art. 

Ibid. 


One  may  comprehend  of  the  art  of  the 
Middle  Age  the  exterior  decoration,  but  not  the 
spirit. 

Ibid. 

cccc. 

Picturesque  processes  must  be  different  from 
literary  processes. 

Ibid, 


1 1 6  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCCCI. 


Under  no  literary  form,  plastic  or  pictur- 
est[ue,  in  any  art,  is  the  characteristic  of  a  race 
expressed  in  traits  as  legible  as  in  caricature. 

Alfred  Stevens. 


The  ideal  of  caricature  is  positive,  direct, 
precise,  and  very  special.  It  is  an  ideal  of 
truth. 

Ibid, 


CCCCIII. 

Hatred  of  vice  and  love  of  innocence  are 
only  different  manifestations  of  the  same  senti- 
ment. 

Ibid. 


CCCCIV. 

The  art   of  a  nation  has  its  root  in  the  na- 
tional character  itself. 

H.  Taine. 


Maxims  of  Art.  117 

ccccv. 

Even  as  each  geologic  revolution  carries 
with  it  its  fauna  and  flora,  each  great  trans- 
formation of  society  carries  with  it  its  ideal 
figures. 

H.  Taine. 

CCCCVI. 

Art  cannot  flourish  until  after  a  long  succes- 
sion of  trials,  of  researches,  of  transformations, 
and  of  progress. 

A.J.   Wauters. 


CCCOVII. 

Simple  truth,  sincerity,  good  faith,  are  the 
characteristics  of  eternal  works. 

Ibid. 

CCCCVIII. 

Nothing  is  so  odd  as  the  mixture  of  Italian 
culture  and  persistent  Germanism,  of  foreign 
language  and  indelible  local  accent,  which 
characterizes  the  mixed  sehool  of  Italo-Flemish 
artists. 

Eugene  Fromenti)i. 


1 18  Maxims  of  Art. 


Even  in  painting,  genealogy  may  be  the 
only  means  of  estimating  the  utility  of  those 
who  try  to  understand  the  greatness  of  those 
who  discover. 

Etighie  Fromentin. 


Great  artistic  families  are  one  of  the  most 
curious  characteristics  of  the  Flemish  school. 
An  individual  takes  a  brush  or  a  graver  and  at 
once  art  turns  the  head  of  all  the  people  who 
surround  him. 

Ibid. 

ccccxi. 

Painting  is  the  language  of  Belgium. 

Ibid. 

CCCCXII. 

lalent  alone  makes  art.  It  makes  art  with 
everything  that  is  offered.  There  is  no  trade 
which  a  great  artist  may  not  elevate. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  1 1 9 

CCCCXIII. 

Is  an  artist  ever  perfect  ?    Nobody  ever  is. 

Etigene  Froinentin. 

CCCCXIV. 

Van  Dyck  learned  from  the  Venetian  school 
how  to  raise  a  physiognomy  to  the  height  of  a 
type  by  accentuating  its  character  and  its  dom- 
inating traits. 

Ibid. 

ccccxv. 

No  school,  not  excepting  the  Dutch  school, 
has  interpreted  animal  life  with  the  superiority 
of  the  Flemish  school. 

Ibid, 

CCCCXVI. 

It  is  one  of  the  glories  of  the  great  school  of 
the  North  to  have  understood  that  it  is  possible 
to  make  art  with  prairies,  woods,  rocks,  clouds  ; 
to  have,  in  a  word,  created  the  landscape. 

Ibid. 


I20  Maxims  of  Art. 

CCCCXVII. 

Flowers  have  been,  from  the  first  periods  of 

painting,   objects  of  minute   study  to  Flemish 

artists. 

Engine  Fro/neiitin. 

CCCCXVIII. 

The  moment  an  artist  thinks  of  money,  he 
loses  the  sentiment  of  the  beautiful. 

Denis  Diderot. 


CCCCXIX. 

The  academics  of  Antwerp  and  of  Bruges 
were  founded  only  to  preside  over  the  funeral 
ceremonies  of  the  Flemish  school. 

A.J.   Wauters. 

CCCCXX. 

The  word  realism  was  invented  to  indicate 
a  return  to  the  ancient  traditions  of  the  schools 
of  Velasquez,  Franz  Hals,  and  the  little  Dutch 
masters. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  121 


CCCCXXI. 


Painting  is,  in  Belgium,  the  nation's  poetical 
language. 

A.J.    Wauters. 


The  artistic  production  of  a  great  nation  is  a 
result  of  the  aptitudes  of  the  people  and  of  its 
character. 

Henry  Havard. 

CCCCXXIII. 

There  is  in  the  life  of  every  people  a  blessed 
epoch  where  all  become  resplendent  at  once. 

Ibid. 

CCCCXXIV. 

The  expression  of  the  sentiments  of  a  nation 
are  marked  with  its  imprint. 

Ibid. 

ccccxxv. 
Art  is  a  nation,  a  people. 


Ibid. 


12  2  Maxims  of  A  rt. 

CCCCXXVI. 

The  art  of  a  nation  is  the  synthesis  of  its 
dominating  thoughts. 

Henry  Havard. 


CCCCXXVII. 

An  artist  must  compel  nature  to  pass  through 
his  inteUigence  and  his  heart. 

Paul  Delaroche. 


CCCCXXVIII. 

Reasoning  will  never  have  on  an   artist  the 
influence  of  a  spectacle. 

Henry  Havard. 


CCCCXXIX. 

Whenever  color  is  the  principal  preoccupa- 
tion of  an  artist,  his  art  tends  naturally  to  be 
materialized. 

Lamennais. 


Maxims  of  A  rt.  123 


It  never  occurred  to  a  Dutch  artist  that  a 
work  of  art  might  have  a  philosophical  impor- 
tance. 

Henry  Havard. 

CCCCXXXI. 

There  is  a  sort  of  Rubicon  which  art  should 
not  cross. 

Ibid. 

CCCCXXXII. 

Artists,  despite  the  greatest  faults,  may  by 
the  perfection  of  certain  qualities  charm  the 
most  prejudiced  minds. 

Ibid. 

CCCCXXXIII. 

In  all  the  branches  of  art  the  danger  is  to 
imitate  mechanically  masters  who  are  given  as 
models  and  who  are  themselves  heavy,  false, 
and  conventional. 

Ibid. 


1 2  4  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCCCXXXIV. 


Cease  to  observe  nature  and  your  sentiment 
of  color  will  diminish  in  intensity. 

Henry  Havard. 


ccccxxxv. 


A  man  does  not  allow  himself  to  be  repro- 
duced easily  with  lines  only. 

G.  Maspero. 


CCCCXXXVI. 

Excessive  polish  has  not  spoiled  Egyptian 
statues,  it  has  not  spoiled  them  more  than  the 
works  of  the  Italian  sculptors  of  the  Renais- 
sance. 

Ibid. 


CCCCXXXVII. 
Social   hierarchy   followed  the  Egyptian  in 
the  tomb  and  regulated  his  pose  after,  as  it  had 
regulated  it  before,  death. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  125 

CCCCXXXVIII. 

When  civil  wars  and  foreign  invasions  placed 
Egypt  at  a  step  from  its  ruin,  art  suffered  like 
the  rest. 

G.  Masp'ero, 


CCCCXXXIX. 

In  Egypt  taste  for  the  beautiful  and  love  of 
luxury  had  soon  penetrated  into  all  classes  of 
society. 

Ibid. 


CCCCXL. 

In  Egypt  art  and  trade  were  not  incompati- 
ble. 

Ibid. 


In  Egypt  even  the  caldron-maker  tried  to 
give  to  his  humblest  works  an  elegant  form 
and  tasteful  ornamentation. 

Ibid. 


12  6  Maxims  of  Art. 


Esthetic  pleasure  is  like  sympathy,  which 
is  not  always  provoked  by  resemblances,  but 
often  by  differences.  It  is  not  true  that  a  peo- 
ple seeks  in  works  of  art  only  its  own  image. 
At  certain  moments  one  seeks  for  one's  con- 
trary; one  feels  the  necessity  for  antithesis. 
That  is  why  Gretchen  loves  Carmen. 

Jean  Breton. 

CCCCXLIII. 

A  great  artist  is  often  too  much  disposed  to  see 
everything  under  the  ideal  form  of  beauty.  For 
him  even  evil  has  its  aesthetic  seductions.  The 
cruelty  of  things  and  of  men  are  transformed 
under  his  pen  in  dramas  which  make  one 
tremble,  but  which  enchant  one. 

G.  Herelle. 


CCCCXLIV. 

Sword-thrusts  are  like  pictures.     One   must 
not  look  at  them  when  they  are  new. 

Leon  de  Tinseau. 


Maxims  of  Art  127 


CCCCXLV. 

That  a  painter  has  the  soul  of  a  poet  is,  in 
the  view  of  certain  people,  useless  and  almost 
a  defect. 

Jean  Lahor. 

CCCCXLVI. 

Poets  were  the  great  primitive  painters,  the 
sublime  painters  of  Christian  ecstasy ;  poets 
were  the  quatrocentists ;  poets  were  all  the 
masters  ! 

Ibid. 

CCCCXLVII. 

What  painter  is  not  bound  to  add  his  fan- 
tasy, his  dream,  his  thought,  his  soul,  to  his 
vision  of  nature,  since  art  is  but  nature  trans- 
figured, transposed  by  fantasy,  dreams,  thought, 
soul  of  an  artist  ? 

Ibid. 

CCCCXLVIII. 

Superior  art,  like  Greek  art,  for  example,  is 


12  8  Maxims  of  Art. 

nature  arrived  in  some  minds  at  superior  devel- 
opment. 

Jean  Lahor. 


Most  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites  were  astonish- 
ing painters  of  minds. 

Ibid, 


Art  in  England  is  constantly  preoccupied  by 
the  obscure  extra-terrestrial. 

Ibid. 

CCCCLI. 

The  extra-terrestrial  is  the  horizon  of  life  and 
of  the  mind. 

Ibid 


CCCCLII. 
Beauty  is  form  of  visions  made  noble. 

CCCCLIII. 


Ibid. 


The  mind  of  every  one   of  us  is  apparently 
made  of  minds  of  diverse  ages,  or  of  diverse 


Maxims  of  Art.  129 

countries,  which  Hve  together  as  well  as  they 
can. 

lean  Lahor. 

CCCCLIV. 

I  feel  that  there  are  two  men  in  me. 

Ibid. 

ccccL^^ 

Pessimistic  doctrine,  which  is  mine  and  that 
of  many  minds,  makes  imperious  necessity  for 
the  beautiful,  which  consoles  one  for  the  mis- 
ery and  the  ugliness  of  things. 

Ibid. 


It  is  well  that  artists  and  men  of  science 
incessantly  bring  together  the  bonds  of  sym- 
pathy between  nations  that  politicians  are 
incessantly  trying  to  separate. 

Ibid. 


Art  is  neither  ancient  nor  modern,  but  per- 
petual. 

Ernest  Hoschede. 


130  Maxims  of  Art. 

CCCCLVIII. 

Painting  which  is  ancient  and  classic,  or 
classic  and  ancient,  is  black  and  yellowed. 
Young  men  who  have  not,  and  will  never  have, 
any  talent  say  to  themselves,  "  The  masters 
paint  black  and  yellowed,  let  us  paint  black 
and  yellowed." 

Ernest  Hoschcde. 

CCCCLIX. 

Paintings  by  Rubens  which  have  been 
washed  have  appeared  fresh,  fleshy,  blond, 
and  dazzling. 

Ibid. 

CCCCLX. 

The  young  girl  of  the  Egyptian  museum, 
who  is  a  contemporary  of  Cleopatra,  has  pre- 
served the  red  tones  of  her  lips  and  the  pink 
tones  of  her  gown. 

Ibid. 

CCCCLXI. 

Mantegna  has  remained  aerial  and  pure  in 
color. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art.  131 

CCCCLXII. 
DIGRESSION.      BY    PAUL   VERLAINE. 

You  have  expressed  the  desire  to  read  in 
letters  a  short  relation  of  my  journey  in  Hol- 
land. 

Here  it  is  in  a  few  pages  that  I  will  fill  as 
well  as  possible.  Having  been  invited  by  a 
group  of  artists  and  men  of  letters  to  give  in 
their  country  a  series  of  lectures,  I  willingly 
acceded,  having  always  been  curious  to  know 
that  country  which  the  ungrateful  Voltaire,  its 
host,  denounced  as  full  of  "  canals,  canards, 
and  canaille,"  that  country  which,  I  proclaim 
it  in  my  turn,  is  evidently  full  of  canals  and  of 
canards,  but  is  fuller  of  hereditary  talent  and  of 
traditional,  preserved  history. 

November  2,  1892,  All  Souls'  Day,  a  good 
augury,  I  quitted  the  Northern  station  in — 
thanks  to  miraculous  funds  which  came  from 
the  Low  Countries — a  special  wagon,  a  first- 
class  wagon,  if  not  like  a  sovereign,  at  least 
like  a  presentable  prince.  There  were  mirrors 
in  the  panels  and  mahogany  planks  which 
could  be  lifted  up  at  the  right  moment  for 
breakfast  or  dinner. 


132  Maxims  of  Art. 

It  is  useless,  is  it  not  ?  to  describe  to  you 
the  sad  landscape  of  the  surroundings  of  Paris, 
St.  Denis  excepted,  with  its  monkish,  formerly 
royal  abbey,  always  divine,  and  its  islands 
placidly  pretty  in  summer,  but  infinitely  mel- 
ancholy in  the  declining  autumn.  Then  man- 
ufactures of  I  know  not  what,  huts,  cabins, 
ruins,  the  use  of  which  is  unknown  to  me.  A 
little  peasant  serenity  follows  after  twenty 
minutes  of  mediocre  rapidity.  Real  plowed 
lands,  authentic  trees  defiled  in  turn  to  give 
place,  after  an  hour,  to  the  Creil  station  sur- 
rounded by  factories  of  a  new  style,  in  the 
midst  of  a  tolerable  country. 

Then  the  train  rolls  until  it  reaches  Saint 
Quentin.  The  successive  landscapes  that  the 
mist  of  the  season  softens  pass  indifferent  as  in 
a  dream,  neither  good  nor  bad,  while  the  tele- 
graphic wires  go  up  and  down,  and  their 
posts  look  like  thin  and  very  tall  Capuchin 
monks.  And  the  white  plume  of  the  locomo- 
tive, the  only  plume — but  so  beautiful ! — of  our 
civilization,  displays  itself,  graceful  and  coquet- 
tish, on  and  through  the  sights  traversed. 

Varied,  if  one  think  it  is,  the  course  of  travel 


Maxims  of  A  rt.  133 

from  Creil  to  Saint  Quentin ;  a  space  of  coun- 
try uniform  but  not  disagreeable,  if  not  to  the 
eye  at  least  to  the  intellectual  eye.  It  talks, 
this  space,  almost  always  cultivated,  and,  at 
this  hour,  consisting  of  long  furrows  awaiting 
the  exit  of  winter  to  become  green  and  the  exit 
of  spring  to  be  turned  into  straw  and  sheafs. 
Little  by  little  the  earth  blackens,  the  rare 
trees  become  thinner  and  look  like  lame  skele- 
tons. Factories  smoke,  and  here  is  a  brick  ! — 
the  brick  of  the  North,  the  blood-red  brick, 
erected  into  vast  constructions  destined  to  in- 
dustry. In  the  distance  are  tall  chimneys,  dark 
and  sinister. 

"  Saint  Quentin  !  Twenty  minutes  !  " 
This  is  uttered  by  an  officer  dressed  in  short 
dark-green  waistcoat  of  the  sort  which  the  Eng- 
lish call  corduroy,  and  wearing  a  flat  cap  of  black 
polished  leather  with  a  visor  copper  lined. 
Oh,  the  accent !  I  read  recently  in  an  article, 
very  well  written  by  a  poet  of  Lille,  that  the 
accent  of  the  Picards  was  dull,  deaf,  so  to 
speak.  Deaf?  Yes — what  serious  patois  is 
not  deaf?  It  must  correspond  to  the  literally 
crushing  labor  of  the  fields.  But  dull  ?  Oh,  no  ! 


1 34  Maxims  of  Art. 

But  you  have  not  asked  me  for  a  lecture, 
you  have  asked  for  a  relation  of  my  journey. 
I  begin  again.     Go  on,  roll ! 

The  train  advances  slovi'ly,  heavily,  through 
suburbs  wherein  the  huts  are  low  and  white- 
washed, and  crowds  of  children  appear  to  see 
the  train  pass.  Nothing  remarkable  happens 
until  we  have  reached  the  Belgian  frontier, 
where  the  telegraphic  posts  are  no  more  long 
poles,  but  inclined  cones.  They  look  now  like 
legs  of  giants  who  are  drunk  and  are  falling 
down.  These  companions  will  accompany  me 
to  The  Hague  and  later  to  Leyden  and  Amster- 
dam. 

CCCCLXIII. 

I  forget  the  name  of  the  station  where  the 
Belgian  custom-house  conducts  its  operations. 
Twenty  minutes  to  visit  the  luggage.  Travel- 
ers who  carry  only  bag — this  is  my  case — do 
not  need  to  get  out  of  the  wagons.  An  old 
custom-house  clerk,  clean  shaven,  in  a  dark 
uniform,  asks  : 

*'  Have  you  anything  that  is  new  ?  " 

«  p  » 


Maxims  of  Art.  135 

After  my  belated  reply,  negative,  or  rather 
confirmative,  the  worthy  man  writes  with  a 
piece  of  chalk  one  of  those  cabalistic  signs 
which  signify  in  this  style  of  stenography, 
"visited"  or  "let  pass"  or  something  like 
this,  evidently.  Oh,  esoteric  manners ;  oh,  ad- 
ministration— international ! 

And  I  take  advantage  of  the  time  which  re- 
mains to  me  to  order  a  portative  breakfast. 
Like  all  the  others  is  the  buffet,  with  the  single 
original  note  that  it  contains  a  bust  of  King 
Leopold  IL,  placed  in  an  elevated  position,  a 
long  horsey  head,  sad  and  distinguished,  com- 
ing out  of  the  collar  of  a  tunic  embroidered 
with  gold,  between  the  epaulets  of  a  general 
of  division,  in  something  which  is  chocolate 
as  much  as  it  is  earth,  earth  which  is  really 
too  much  cotta. 

In  the  various  spoken  transactions  to  which 
I  have  to  devote  myself  in  view  of  the  order 
and  of  the  payment  for  the  aforesaid  portative 
breakfast,  I  find  again,  after  seventeen  years  of 
former  acquaintance,  the  Belgian  language  at 
which  the  Parisians  make  too  much  fun. 

Philologists,  explain  to  us  whence  come,  for 


136  Maxims  of  A  rt. 

example,  these  odd  ellipses,  "  Comest  thou 
with  ;"  these  expletives,  '*  For  one  time,  know- 
est  thou?  "  I  do  not  laugh  at  these  locutions, 
for  in  my  eyes  Belgian  is  only  a  local  French, 
with  gently  naive  turns  of  expression. 

Here  I  am  again  digressing.  Pshaw  !  You 
excuse  me,  do  you  not  ?  After  all,  if  a  famil- 
iar relation  in  simple  letters  is  to  be  a  lecture, 
even  if  you  swore  at  me  I  would  digress  when- 
ever the  occasion  seemed  to  me  to  be  logical 
or  simply  presented  itself.  Digression,  after  all, 
is  a  flower  in  a  buttonhole,  a  ring  on  a  finger — 
also,  and  perhaps  oftener,  a  flag,  or  rather  a  pa- 
vilion covering  merchandise. 

Here  I  am  in  my  special  wagon — in  railwa' 
talk  it  is  called  a  toilet  wagon — a  charming 
word,  is  it  not  ?  It  sounds  Belgian.  The  buffet 
waiter  brings  to  me  in  a  wicker  basket,  red,  ob- 
long, shut  with  an  open  padlock,  my  breakfast, 
hence  portative,  you  see. 

I  lift  the  mahogany  plank  which  is  opposite 
me,  place  it  on  two  supports  which  I  find  in 
the  lower  panel,  and  I  place  on  this  pocket 
table — if  it  may  be  so  called — two  dishes  con- 
taining meat,  two  dishes  containing  vegetables, 


Maxims  of  Art.  137 

a  cake,  a  half  bottle  of  Macon  and  a  quart  bot- 
tle of  champagne.  The  whole  thing  for  ninety 
cents.     I  forget  the  name  of  the  caterer. 

Finished  my  breakfast,  let  us  look  at  Bel- 
gium. I  know  for  having  walked  through  them 
— how  many  times  I  do  not  know — these 
poor  solitudes  of  the  Hainaut.  Some  villages, 
titles  and  plaster.  The  train  goes  through  sights 
more  and  more  black.     After  an  hour,  Mons ! 

Mons  !  A  city  where  I  have  lived  for  a  long 
time  and  which  I  do  not  know.  Yes,  in  my 
early  childhood  I  slept  one  night  at  the  hotel. 
When  I  was  much  less  young  I  stayed  there 
for  more  than  a  day  and  more  than  a  night,  not 
at  the  hotel,  and,  as  I  was  not  ill,  consequently 
not  at  the  hospital,  either.  And  yet  I  do  not 
know  Mons.     Fix  this  up  as  well  as  you  can  ! 

It  is,  therefore,  the  first  time  that  I  seriously 
see  the  capital  of  this  province.  It  seems  to  me 
to  be  rather  red,  with  a  very  high  tower,  much 
ornamented,  in  bluish  stone. 

The  conductor  of  the  French  train  had  quitted 
us  in  his  dull  uniform,  black  with  attributes, 
collar,  bands,  violet  braid.  In  his  place  a 
pretty  young  man,  blonde,  tightened  in  a  black 


138  Maxims  of  Art. 

tunic  with  dazzling  flat  copper  buttons,  wearing 
a  rigid  cap  with  a  copper  lined  visor,  presides 
over  our  destinies.  Charming,  the  young  man 
who  replies  to  my  confidences  relative  to  my  anx- 
iety about  crossing  the  Belgian  frontier  toward 
Holland,  a  land  where  French  does  not  flourish. 

"  Do  not  fear,  sir  ;  I  will  recommend  you  to 
the  director  of  the  Holland  train." 

Confident  in  this  assurance,  I  reinstalled  my- 
self in  my  solitary  wagon — and  so  much  the 
better.  I  have  a  bird's-eye  view  of  Brussels — 
this  city  wherein  I  have  in  my  time  terribly,  al- 
though for  only  a  few  months,  but  what  months  ! 
lived.     Well,  Brussels  is  very  gentle. 

Tiles  and  plaster  for  the  suburbs,  Spanish 
fragments  and  Gothic  lost  in  new  things — sev- 
eral ancient  marvelous  things,  the  City  Hall 
with  its  immensely  high  belfry,  surmounted  by 
St.  Michael  brandishing  in  the  form  of  a  sword 
a  sheaf  of  lightning-rods — it's  the  fashion  for 
lightning-rods  in  Belgium  to  be  grouped  in  the 
form  of  swords  brandished  in  sheafs.  Opposite 
the  City  Hall,  on  the  so  pretty  place,  the  admir- 
able Royal  House — do  not  confound  with  the 
royal  palace,  an  ugly  building.     They  did  well 


Maxims  of  Art  139 

to  take  from  in  front  of  this  marvel  of  art,  which 
it  masked,  the  bronze  group  of  Egmont  and  of 
Horn.  Saint-Gudule,  pure  Gothic,  a  httle  heavy 
doubtless,  but  imposing  because  it  is  heavy. 
.  .  .  As  for  modern  buildings,  permit  me  not 
to  dw^ell  upon  them.  They  are  useful  doubtless, 
but  thick,  and  without  any  art.  Yes,  Brussels 
is  an  amiable  city,  even  when  seen  in  this  cur- 
sive fashion,  and  I  can  understand  that  the  poet 
of  the  Wandering  Jew  made  his  hero  stop  here 
to  talk  with  very  docile  bourgeois. 

We  defiled  toward  Antwerp,  an  agricultural 
cotmtry  with  immense  plains  that  belonged  to 
cows  and  to  sheep,  studded  with  clear  villages 
and  elegant  castles  a  little  out  of  shape,  but 
very  amusing  all  the  same.  Then  the  scene 
changes  and  it  is  Campine :  severity  in  quasi- 
sterility.  The  train  takes  us  into  the  states  of 
her  young  Majesty,  Queen  Wilhelmina,  first  of 
the  name. 

CCCCLXIV. 
Every  subject  that  the  painter  chooses  im- 
poses obligations  upon  him. 

Georges  Lafenestre. 


I40  Maxims  of  Art. 


CCCCLXV. 

The  first  of  the  obhgations  of  a  painter  is  to 
present  his  subject  logically  and  to  express 
with  judgment  his  idea  of  it. 

Georges  Lafenestre. 

CCCCLXVI. 

A  painter  must  give  seriously,  sincerely,  and 
completely,  even  in  a  sketch  or  in  a  study,  all 
that  he  has  seen,  felt,  and  desired  about  a  sub- 
ject. 

Ibid. 

CCCCLXVII. 

Many  painters  make  use  to-day  of  democratic 
realism  and  will  fall  to-morrow  into  weak  mys- 
ticism. 

Tbid. 
CCCCLXVIII, 

You  cannot  expect  of  painters  convictions 
more  settled  than  those  of  statesmen  and  phi- 
losophers. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  A  rt.  1 4 1 

CCCCLXIX. 

If  a  painter  has  the  sincerity  of  the  moment, 
do  not  ask  more. 

Georges  Lafenesire. 

CCCCLXX. 

There  will  always  be  Christians  and  pagans, 
materialists  and  mystics,  learned  and  ignorant 
people,  and  each  of  these  classes  will  always 
demand  art  works  in  accordance  with  their 
tastes. 

Ibid. 

CCCCLXXI. 

A  DIGRESSION.     BY  PAUL  VERLAINE. 

Nothing  resembles  the  Belgian  frontier  more 
than  the  confines  of  Holland.  Some  green,  a 
few  trees,  water  and  brooks,  very  humble  vil- 
lages near  to  one  another.  As  you  advance 
the  green  becomes  greener,  the  trees  become 
rarer,  the  water  becomes  less  modest.  It  falls 
into  thin  canals  for  the  love  of  God,  very  long, 
separating   in   parallel   bands   narrow  prairies 


142  Maxims  of  Art. 

where  the  cattle  is  abundant.  Among  them,  a 
windmill. 

The  gentle  monotony  of  these  aspects,  which 
are  infinitely  regular,  wearies  a  little  one's  first 
curiosity.  So  profound  was  this  sensation  in 
me  that  I  fell  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  wagon. 
It  was  a  half  sleep,  full  of  vague  preparation 
for  my  lectures,  so  full  of  them,  in  fact,  that  it 
degenerated  into  a  serious  and  prolonged  sleep, 
until  the  twilight  lit  the  lamp  on  the  ceiling  of 
my  wagon.  I  regretted  that  I  had  been  pre- 
vented for  a  long  hour  from  seeing  sites  which 
were  so  new  to  me  and  which  must  have  varied 
during  my  half-death.  They  had  varied,  the 
sites ! 

An  immense  extent  of  golden  water,  made 
green  at  the  horizon  by  the  last  efforts  of  the 
setting  sun,  displayed  itself  motionless,  with 
black  veils  of  boats  hardly  moving  in  the  grow- 
ing obscurity.  This  at  the  left.  At  the  right, 
the  same  spectacle.  An  interminable  bridge 
of  cast  iron  on  which  the  train  passes  slowly, 
with  a  regular  noise,  powerful,  almost  terrible, 
so  precisely  regular  it  is  in  its  power.  When 
the  night  came,  the  vision  of  water  had  effaced 


Maxims  of  Art.  143 

itself,  to  give  place  to  villages  which  one  would 
think  submerged,  so  surrounded  by  water  they 
are.  A  steeple,  windmills,  shadows  of  houses, 
dotted  with  vacillating  lights — this  is  Dor- 
drecht. 

The  darkness,  lassitude,  made  me  return  to 
my  comer,  charmed  by  a  severe  charm,  yet 
very  soft.  Expectation,  you  know,  expectation 
of  something  good,  cordial,  besides  curiosity, 
somnolent  feeling,  took  hold  of  me,  not  to  quit 
me  again  until  the  same  noise,  powerful  and 
regular,  led  us  into  rows  of  lights. 

A  new  cast-iron  bridge  passing  over  houses 
extravagantly  pointed,  on  canals,  on  streets  all 
gas  and  electricity,  revealing  large  stores,  com- 
merce, and  an  elegance  almost  Parisian.  A 
large  city     .     .     .     Rotterdam. 

The  train  starts  again  in  the  night  after  a 
sharp  halt  at  the  Rotterdam  station.  It  must 
— it  is  night — traverse  water,  rivulets,  water  of 
larger  dimensions,  with  black  boats  carrying 
red  lights  that  swing  in  the  dark,  and  there 
are  perspectives  of  windmills  forming  tall  black 
crosses  under  the  black  and  red  sky. 

After  an  hour  of  this  travel  the  locomotive 


144  Maxims  of  Art. 

whistles  for  a  long  time — and  we  enter  The 
Hague  station. 

I  ask  myself  where  I  am,  and  in  my  extreme 
trouble  at  hearing  the  yellers  yell  "  Den 
Hagg ! "  think  that  the  English  call  Londres, 
London ! 

Well,  while  I  am  hesitating  and  feeling 
bored,  an  excellent  friend  who  had  known  me 
in  Paris  makes  a  sign  to  me  from  the  platform, 
and  at  his  gesture  came  from  the  shadow 
into  full  electricity  ten,  twenty  persons  who 
distribute  among  themselves  my  light  luggage 
and  carry  rather  than  lead  me  to  a  comfortable 
carriage,  such  as  Paris  has  not,  and  then  I  am 
led  by  a  trotting  horse,  an  excellent  horse — do 
all  the  things  that  these  Hollanders  have 
appear  excellent  ? — followed  by  two  carriages, 
through  pretty  streets  not  tooimuch,  not  enough 
perhaps,  Flemish :  well  lighted  and  most  ele- 
gant. We  pass  often  under  passages  ending 
into  ducal  and  royal  squares,  each  one  of  which 
possesses  a  William  the  Silent  in  stone,  in 
marble,  or  in  bronze.  There  is  even  one  by 
the  Mathildian  Nieuwerkerke. 

We  pass  by  a  cortege  of  little   pink  girls 


Maxims  of  Art.  1 4  5 

in  sabots  coming  out  of  church.  Black  blouses, 
white  aprons ;  you  would  think  yourself  look- 
ing at  provincial  Catholic  orphans. 

The  Verlainian  cortege,  since  Verlain  and 
Verlainian  there  are,  stops  at  the  entrance  of  a 
glass-covered  passage,  similar  to  many  glass- 
covered  passages,  but  more  recent  and  better, 
naturally.  Architecture,  in  disposition  and 
clearness  sufficient ;  elegance  and  low  prices 
.  .  .  prices  of  Paris.  This  marvel  modestly, 
or  conceitedly,  entitles  itself,  in  French  and 
in  Dutch  as  you  will,  "  Le  Passage,"  and  has 
no  other  name  of  a  great  man  or  of  a  locality 
at  the  tail  end. 

At  the  center  of  this  illustrious  passage  ex- 
ists a  certain  liquor-shop,  Schiedam,  well  fre- 
quented, although  not  very  fine  in  appearance. 
This  is  our  first  station  in  "  S'Gravenhage  " — 
the  devil  take  the  interpretation,  thirty-six 
times  muddled  up,  of  this  terrible  word  !  I 
think  that  any  explanation  which  should  not 
be  a  course  in  history  would  have  no  other 
result  here  than  the  labor  of  the  excellent 
witches  mentioned  in  Victor  Hugo's  "  Crom- 
well," who  "  sing  while  making  knots." 


146  Maxims  of  Art. 

A  few  instants  later  we  invade  a  sumptuous 
establishment,  all  flowers,  all  trees,  all  mirrors, 
all  electricity,  wherein  a  literal  festival  of 
Titans  is  served  to  us.  The  painter,  Philip 
Ziltken,  and  I  separate  from  the  civilians  and 
go  into  the  distant  country  at  the  Helene 
Villa — here  again  a  name  with  which  one 
should  be  allowed  to  sleep  only  out  of  doors : 
"  Bezuidenhout,"  think  of  it,  my  friends ! — 
where  we  are  received  by  his  wife,  a  Belgian, 
not  worse,  and  even  better,  than  a  Parisian — 
excu-se  a  wounded  man — all  simple,  all  good, 
with  wit.  She  carries  in  her  arms  their  dear 
little  Renee,  to  whom  quickly  I  write  a  sonnet. 

Sleep  soon  overtakes  me  in  the  delicious 
and  comfortable  room  at  the  second  story,  which 
is  mine  for  the  entire  period  of  my  sojourn 
here. 

What  a  sleep ! 


CCCCLXXII. 

Art  is  neither  a  bust,  nor  a  head,  nor  a  body ; 
it  is  the  mind,  faith,  passion,  pain. 

Josephin  Peladan. 


Maxims  of  A rt.  147 


CCCCLXXIII, 
All  art  is  ideographic. 


Jcse'phin  Peladan. 


CCCCLXXIV. 


Yes,  it  is  beautiful  because  it  is  beautiful. 

Guy  de  Maupassant. 


CCCCLXXV. 

Have  genius !     In  art,  talent  is  nothing. 

Theodore  de  Banville. 


CCCCLXXVI. 

I  do  not  know  what  morality  in  art  is. 

Francisque  Sarcey. 

CCCCLXXVII. 

The  Laocoon  of  Virgil !  .  .  .  I  know 
one  more  terrible.  It  is  the  one  smothered 
and  devoured  by  serpents  issued  from  his  own 
heart. 

J.  Bar  bey  d''  A  ur  evilly. 


148  Maxims  of  Art. 

CCCCLXXVIII. 

You  shall  see  that  artists  will  shed  tears 
over  the  Orient's  slavery  as  they  have  shed 
tears  over  the  liberty  of  Greece,  and  for  the 
same  reason.  The  picturesque  departs  from 
everywhere. 

J.  Bar  bey  d^  A  ur  evilly. 

CCCCLXXIX. 

For  Christian  metaphysicians,  art  is  a  laugha- 
ble effort  of  impotents. 

Ibid. 


CCCCLXXX. 

Art  is  an  embracing  of  clouds. 

Ibid. 


CCCCLXXXI. 

Let  a  man  be  slightly  a  Christian  with  an 
ideal,  and  be  shall  have  a  better  vision  of  the 
beautiful  by  closing  his  eyes  like  Milton  than 
by  painting  with  the  divine  bmsh  of  Correggio. 

Ibid. 


Maxims  of  Art .  149 

CCCCLXXXII. 

There  is  no  reason  for  not  admiring  Correg- 

gio. 

J.  Bar  bey  d''  Aur  Evilly, 


CCCCLXXXIII. 

There  is  something  better  than  to  have  por- 
traits and  medals ;  it  is  to  have  none. 

Ibid. 

CCCCLXXXIV. 

These  devils  of  painters  disconcert  imagina- 
tion. 

Ibid, 

CCCCLXXXV. 

Gambling  has  diamond  nails.  It  is  terrible. 
It  gives,  when  it  wishes,  misery  and  shame ; 
that  is  why  it  is  adored.  The  attraction  of 
danger  is  at  the  basis  of  all  great  passions. 
There  is  no  voluptuousness  without  vertigo. 
Pleasure  mixed  with  fear  intoxicates.  Gam- 
bling  is   dumb,  blind,  and   deaf.     It   can  do 


1 50  Maxims  of  Art. 

everything.  It  is  a  god.  Those  whom  it 
cruelly  despoils  accuse  themselves,  not  gam- 
bling. 

Anatole  France. 


CCCCLXXXVI. 

y^sthetics  rests  on   nothing   solid.     It    is  a 
castle  in  the  air. 

Ibid. 


CCCCLXXXVII. 

There  is  no  ethics. 

Ibid. 


CCCCLXXXVI  II. 

My  feebleness  is  dear  to  me.     I  hold  to  my 
imperfection  as  to  my  reason  for  being. 

Ibid 


CCCCLXXXIX. 

Is  there   an   impartial   history?     And  what 
is  history  ?     A  written   representation  of  past 


Maxims  of  Art.  1 5 1 

events.     But  what  is  an  event  ?     History  is  not 
a  science,  but  an  art. 

Anatole  France. 

CCCCXC. 

Old  people  care  too  much  for  their  ideas. 
That  IS  why  the  natives  of  the  Fiji  Islands  kill 
their  parents  when  they  are  old.  Thus  they 
facilitate  evolution,  whereas  we  retard  its  march 
by  forming  academies. 

Ibid. 

CCCCXCI. 

Evil  is  necessary.  If  it  did  not  exist,  the 
good  would  not  exist.  Evil  is  the  unique 
reason  for  the  good's  being.  \\Tiat  would 
courage  be  far  from  peril  ?  and  what  pity  with- 
out pain  ?  What  would  become-  of  devotion 
and  sacrifice  if  happiness  were  universal  ?  It 
is  because  of  evil  and  of  suffering  that  the 
earth  may  be  inhabited  and  that  life  is  worth 
living.  Do  not  complain  of  the  devil.  He  is 
a  great  artist  and  very  learned.  For  every 
vice  that  you  destroy  there  was  a  correspond- 
ing virtue  which  perished  with  it. 

Ibid. 


152  Maxims  of  Art. 

CCCCXCII. 
DIGRESSION.       BY    PAUL   VERLAINE. 

It  is  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  As  I  look 
out  of  the  window  I  verify  the  existence  around 
me  of  water  and  of  lawns  studded  with  cows 
and  windmills.  The  windmills  are  used  to 
raise  excess  of  water  into  superior  canals, 
which  generally  flow  into  the  sea  through  some 
great  river. 

We  take  breakfast  with  tea,  in  the  English 
fashion,  in  a  light  and  gay  dining-room,  full  of 
sketches  and  of  drawings  of  friends.  I  admire 
a  Meryon,  a  vessel  sailing  into  the  unknown. 
Ancient  clocks  of  the  purest  Dutch  style  mark 
and  ring  the  hours. 

Opposite  the  entrance  to  Helene  Villa,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  canal,  the  royal  winter 
palace  is  seen  from  the  rear.  It  is  not  beauti- 
ful, that  palace.  Big  buildings  of  red  brick 
and  an  odd  dome  with  a  round  sun-dial.  It  is 
here  that  the  Queen  of  the  Netherlands  comes 
to  stay  every  winter. 

What  is  beautiful  is  the  immense  park  com- 
posed of  centenarian  trees,  in   this  season  all 


Maxims  of  Art.  153 

red  and  gold  under  the  sun,  still  warm  in  the 
beginning  of  a  temperate  November. 

Legend  says  that  Voltaire  has  promenaded 
among  the  mysterious  shades  of  this  wood 
cares,  wherein  philosophy  had  little  part. 

We  pass  into  the  studio,  a  studio  as  amusing 
as  possible.  No  paintings.  The  master  has 
sent  all  his  works  to  a  great  exhibition  at 
Amsterdam.  I  look  at  the  library  consisting 
of  works  of  Goncourt,  two  or  three  of  Villiers, 
a  number  of  technical  works,  some  by  Bar- 
bey  d'Aurevilly,  and  .  .  .  some  Verlaine 
books.  Then  an  infinite  collection  of  exotic 
shoes.  It  is  very  amusing,  and  we  are  enjoying 
the  spectacle  when  somebody  rings,  and  here 
comes  one  of  our  companions,  Jan  Vetch,  a 
friend  of  Zilcken,  who  sketches  me  while  I 
begin  to  put  on  paper  some  notes  for  my  first 
lecture. 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  :  " 

He  has  no  sooner  finished  his  work  than 
Zilcken  himself,  armed  with  a  kodak,  takes 
my  portrait  under  various  aspects,  seated  and 
working. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  bow  to  this  beautiful 


T54  Maxims  of  Art, 

land  of  Holland,  to  this  land,  this  must  be  said 
now  or  never,  the  classic  land  of  liberty  under 
the  magnificent  despot  Louis  XIV.  and  his 
feeble  successors,  under  the  revolutionary  dic- 
tatorship, then  militaiy,  which  was  happily 
mitigated  by  the  wisdom  of  the  brother  of  the 
all-powerful  emperor,  that  Louis  Bonaparte 
who  was  something  himself  and  leaves  a  name 
independent  of  his  too  graceful  wife  and  of  his 
tragic  and  too  unfortunate  son." 

Zilcken  will  not  let  me  go  and  beautiful 
phrases  continue.     .     .     . 

Somebody  rings.  .  .  .  Shall  I  say  hap- 
pily ?  Again,  one  of  last  night's  accomplices, 
Toorop,  a  symbolist  painter.  He  is  accompa- 
nied by  Albert  Verwey,  a  poet  of  great  renown 
in  Holland. 

I  continue. 

"  No,  mesdames,  no  messieurs,  the  Roman 
school  of  which  I  am  not  the  apostle,  God 
preserve  me  from  this !  is  not  the  ridiculous 
thing  that  people  think.  Moreas  writes  verses 
better  than  anybody  and  knows  how  to  put  in 
his  rhythms  something  more  than  harmony.  As 
for  his  disciples,  all  five  of  them  have  talent 


Maxims  of  Art.  155 

that  is  becoming  more  and  more  original.  As 
for  the  formula  of  this  school     .     .     ." 

A  maid  knocks  at  the  door  and  enters  .  .  . 
must  I  say  happily  ? — I  say  it — announcing 
that  breakfast  is  served. 

We  sit  at  a  table  to  which  we  do  honor.  I 
forget  my  lecture  and  think  only  of  the  ladies, 
talking  with  Mme.  Zilcken  and  her  mother,  of 
Brussels,  of  Paris,  and  of  laces. 

At  times  I  talk  to  Verwey,  who  expresses 
himself  with  difficulty  in  our  language,  which 
he  knows  thoroughly.  He  is  all  hair,  this 
Verwey. 

It  is  even  the  most  terrible  thing  in  his 
physiognomy  marked  with  true,  almost  infan- 
tile, kindness.  Anyway,  he  is  quite  young, 
thirty  years  at  most,  which  he  does  not  w^ar. 

Miss  Renee  is  full  of  grace,  the  "  patron  "  is 
nervous  like  the  devil,  we  are  all  very  gay,  and 
to  accompany  our  appetite  a  song  bird  of  Hol- 
land throws  at  us  its  most  successful  trills. 

After  breakfast,  coffee  in  the  parlor.  A 
good  hour  of  doing  nothing,  entertained  by 
these  Batavian  or  Javanese  cigars,  which  one 
should   not   smoke  too  much,  under   pain  of 


1 5  6  Maxims  of  Art. 

headache — especially  when  united,  as  they  are 
frequently  in  (his  land  of  cold  heads,  to  Schie- 
dam bitters.  But  for  a  good  Frenchman  of 
France  it's  bad.  So  I  abstained.  I  abstained 
during  the  entire  time  of  my  sojourn,  otherwise 
how  could  I  have  given  my  lectures? 

We  return  to  the  studio,  where  I  put  the  last 
touch  to  to-night's  lecture  under  the  eye  of  an 
instantaneous  machine  vaguely  fixed  on  me. 

But  the  master  declares  that  we  must  go  to 
the  city.  I  ask,  as  you  may  think,  nothing 
better.     Anyway  my  lecture  is  ready. 

Was  it  the  day  that  it  rained  so  much  or  the 
one  which  was  so  beautiful  ?  I  do  not  remem- 
ber; but  the  trees  of  the  wood  were  more 
splendid — red,  black,  and  gold,  along  the 
canal  gilded  by  their  reflection — than  ever. 
To  wait  for  the  little  tramway  car  did  not  take 
long.  And  we  passed  between  two  rows  of 
houses  with  terraces,  cornices,  bay  windows  too 
English  but  coquettish,  and  take  on  our  way  a 
painter  of  talent,  Etienne  Bosch.  We  arrived 
after  a  short  time  at  the  heart  of  the  city. 
The  time  to  say  good-evening  to  Blok  in  his 
book-shop   and    to   stop    for  a   moment   in  a 


Maxims  of  Ari.  157 

Bodega — and  we  go  to  visit  the  hall  where  I 
am  to  talk  to-night.  It  is  one  of  the  rooms 
which  compose  the  building  of  the  Masonic 
Hall  at  The  Hague.  It  has  a  doubly  Protes- 
tant air.  Walls  painted  in  light  green  or  some- 
thing analogous,  gray,  or  light  red,  my  mem- 
ory is  at  fault.  No  gold,  no  ornament.  For 
furniture,  a  chandelier  of  bronze,  a  hundred 
chairs,  a  chair  or  a  tribune  in  a  corner.  At 
the  center  a  platform  with  the  traditional  table 
covered  with  green  cloth,  two  candles  and  a 
glass     .     .     .     empty. 

I  ascend  the  platform,  and  not  having  my 
lecture  with  me  I  read,  to  try  the  acoustics,  a 
paragraph  from  the  Gil  Bias  in  these  terms  : 

"Observed  among  our  most  elegant  demi- 
mondaines,  Berthe  d'Egreville,  Marion  De- 
lorme,  Clemence  de  Pibrac,  Leona  Bind- 
ler    .     .     ." 

Oh,  Calvin  ;  oh,  Frederic  Passy ;  oh,  Jules 
Simon  ;  oh,  immortal  Senator  Beranger !  What 
say  you  of  the  bandit  who  comes  to  awaken 
these  chaste  echoes  with  names  so  charming ! 
The  voice  is  feeble.  It  is  true,  for  my  excuse 
to  the  saints  whom  I  have  cited,  that  the  nee- 


158  Maxims  oj  Art, 

essary  enthusiasm  was  lacking  in  my  enumera- 
tion, but  the  acoustic  is  good. 

Pretty  as  it  can  be,  the  city ;  Flemish  houses, 
beautiful  stores.  The  little  pavement  of  brick 
is  soft  to  the  foot  and  gay  to  the  eye.  Few- 
monuments  :  a  city  hall,  very  gmall,  of  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Renaissance,  with  charming 
chimes.  A  palace  for  the  various  tribunals, 
small  also  and  of  an  architec^.ure  pseudo- 
Gothic,  I  fear  it  is  "  perpendicularist  "  hke  the 
English  cathedrals,  but  only  one  stcry  high, 
which  does  not  suit  the  style  of  architecture, 
which  is  really  grand  when  lithe.  See  West- 
minster Abbey,  Canterbury,  so  many  other 
marvels.  The  churches  of  The  Hague  have 
nothing  remarkable  in  their  appearance.  One 
Sunday,  fourteen  days  after  my  arrival,  I 
wanted  to  go  to  divine  service  in  a  va^t  build- 
ing, all  brick-red  and  mediaeval  glasses,  but 
friends  dissuaded  me  from  going  in,  because 
when  once  you  are  in  one  of  these  temples  you 
cannot  get  out  until  the  end  of  the  sermon. 

And  we  go  to  the  coffee-house.  All  ip 
glasses  and  mirrors,  this  coffee-house,  like  tha* 
of  the  "  Passage,"  trees  and  chrysanthemums 


Maxims  of  Art.  159 

The  coffee-houses  here  recall  those  of  Paris, 
but  they  are  larger.  People  drink  and  smoke 
in  them,  and  eat  small,  salted  dry  cakes. 
Those  who  wish  to  read  the  newspapers  and 
the  reviews  may  enjoy  long  tables  in  one  of  the 
most  luminous  corners  of  the  establishment. 
But  the  dinner-hour  rings,  and  a  magnificent 
quasi-carriage  takes  us  back  to  Helene  Villa. 
Along  the  route,  in  spite  of  the  cigars,  we  talk. 
My  host  is  a  type,  the  finished  type  of  a  stranger 
talking  French  as  well  as  you  or  me,  with- 
out any  accent  and  without  a  fault,  the  type  of 
an  artist  knowing  a  thousand  things,  varied, 
instructive,  and  incisive  in  his  conversation,  and 
whom  one  would  listen  to  forever.  The  son  of 
a  high  clerk  of  the  government,  he  was  in  his 
youth  the  private  secretary  to  Queen  Sophie, 
the  only  friend  of  the  unfortunate  Napoleon 
III.,  who,  if  he  had  listened  to  her,  would 
have  spared  us  the  war  of  1 870.  Physically, 
Zilcken  does  not  at  all  look  like  the  idea  that 
one  forms  of  a  Dutchman — from  the  Flemish 
painters,  from  also  literature.  The  classic 
tobacco-pot  gives  place  in  him  to  a  tall  young 
man,  thin,  lithe,  always  in  motion.     He  has  a 


i6o  Maxims  of  Art. 

great  reputation  as  a  painter  and  as  an  engraver 
in  this  country,  and  is  not  unknown  to  our 
national  exhibitions. 

We  are  at  Helene  Villa.  I  go  up-stairs  "  to 
dress,"  I  come  down  to  take  notes  and  books — 
and  we  start  for  glory  in  a  hired  carriage  which 
will  bring  us  back  at  a  late  hour.  Madame 
Zilcken  has  not  forgotten  to  carry  an  egg  that 
the  lecturer  will  swallow  for  his  voice,  but  here 
is  the  fearful  cavern  with  endless  corridors,  with 
innumerable  rooms  more  austere  than  any 
which  you  have  ever  seen.  I  swallow  the  egg 
and  I  make  my  entrance  in  the  hall.  A  good 
hundred  in  the  audience,  among  whom  are 
many  ladies  and  young  girls,  who  greet  me 
with  plaudits.  I  ascend  the  three  steps  of  the 
platform  and  take  my  seat  between  two  can- 
dles, with,  at  my  right,  the  glass  of  water,  a 
sugar-bowl,  a  decanter,  while  Zilcken  puts  on 
the  table  a  pile  of  books,  all  my  works,  the 
poems  of  the  Roman  school,  others,  all  the 
poems  to  be  carefully  analyzed  marked  with 
long  pieces  of  white  pape  •. 

I  begin. 

I  had  not  spoken  until  then  more  than  once 


Maxims  of  Art.  i6i 

in  my  life.  It  happened  in  1869.  This  is 
how  it  happened.  I  had,  in  combination  with 
a  friend,  indorsed  the  note  of  a  Polish  exile  for 
a  loan  of  several  hundred  francs.  The  hero  in 
question  having  soon  after  quitted  sweet  France 
one  fine  morning,  something  imperative  came 
to  me  signed  by  a  justice  of  the  peace.  I 
arrived  before  him  at  the  appointed  day,  and 
when  the  magistrate  asked  me  what  I  had  to 
say,  I  exclaimed,  "  Adjourn  for  eight  days." 
This  was  accorded.  What  became  of  this 
success  in  oratory  ?  I  did  not  appear  in  eight 
days,  and  I  think  I  am  still  a  debtor  for  the 
loan  to  the  martyr. 

But  this  precedent  twice  triumphant  was  not 
of  a  nature  to  reassure  me.  And  I  tremble 
a  little  when  I  pronounce  the  sacramental 
"  Ladies,  Gentlemen,"  followed  by  a  bow  in 
the  Holland  fashion.  The  depth  of  my  thought 
was,  you  do  not  doubt  it,  that  I  would  like  to 
have  finished.  Happily  I  had  arranged,  while 
coming,  a  gentle  little  phrase  about  The  Hague 
in  particular,  "  this  truly  royal  city,  where  ease 
and  comfort,"  etc.  It  was  very  successful,  and 
so  I  could  attack  my  subject  less   timidly.     I 


1 6 2  Maxims  of  A  rt. 

talked  minutely  of  contemporary  poetry,  go- 
ing back  to  Romanticism  and  arriving  at  con- 
temporary Parnassus,  to  which  I  paid  due 
homage.  Then  I  analyzed,  I  explained,  in  the 
best  way  that  I  could,  the  shades  of  decadisra 
and  of  symbolism  and  the  mysteries  of  the 
Roman  school,  summarizing  the  whole  by  a 
solemn  good-night  to  all  these  abstruse  words — 
which  happily  do  not  take  talent  away  from 
those  who  have  it,  although  it  pleases  them  to 
dress  themselves  in  the  showy  costumes.  And 
.  I  cited,  in  support  of  my  thesis,  great  lots  of 
verses  of  my  comrades  and  friends,  whom  I  had 
the  happiness  of  causing  to  be  applauded  fre- 
quently. 

After  which  I  spoke  of  myself,  making  of 
my  biography,  which  would  be  so  complex  for 
one  who  undertook  it  seriously,  a  summary 
discreet  but  sincere.  And  I  read  verses  of 
mine — fragments  of  "  Sagesse,"  which  pleased 
the  audience. 

It  was  a  success.  Only  three  things  were 
criticised :  My  voice  was  a  little  veiled,  I  had 
not  principally  quoted  my  own  verses,  I  had 
recited  my  lesson  without  taking  time  to  rest 


Maxims  of  Art.  163 

and  to  give  time  to  my  audience  to  rest  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  as  is  the  custom  here. 

But  here  come  Zilcken  and  Madame  Zilcken, 
Toorop,  Verwey,  who  take  me  to  the  Passage, 
where  we  invade  a  large  coffee-house. 

CCCCXCIII. 

Most  disputes  about  art  are  disputes  about 
definitions. 

A  If  red  de  Musset. 


A  painter  must  be  up  with  the  dawn.  The 
hght  of  the  sun  is  his  hfe  and  the  real  element 
of  his  art,  since  he  can  do  nothing  without  it. 

Ibid. 


History  has  often  talked  of  the  facility  with 
which  great  artists  executed  their  works. 
Some  have  been  quoted  who  knew  how  to 
unite  with  work  disorder,  and  even  laziness. 
But  there  is  no  greater  error  than  this.  It  is 
not  j^ossible  that  a  painter,  well  trained,  sure  of 
his  hand  and  of  his  fame,  may  succeed  in  mak- 


164  Maxims  of  Art. 

ing  a  beautiful  sketch  among  distractions  and 
pleasures.  Vinci  painted,  they  say,  holding  a 
lyre  in  one  hand;  but  the  celebrated  portrait 
of  the  Joconda  remained  for  five  years  on  his 
easel.  In  spite  of  rare  tricks  which  are  always 
too  vaunted,  it  is  certain  that  the  really  beauti- 
ful is  the  work  of  time  and  that  there  is  no  real 
genius  without  patience. 

A  If  red  de  M us  set. 

CCCCXCVI. 

The  first  sign  of  decadence  in  art  is  deplor- 
able facility  in  work. 

Ibid 

CCCCXCVII. 

Invaded  is  the  word,  for  the  immense  build- 
ing which  until  now  had  no  clients  was  crowded 
in  an  instant  by  people  who,  although  Dutch, 
were  noisy  and  talked  about  me — at  least  I 
dare  to  think  that,  plausibly,  they  talked  of 
me. 

Congratulations  had  already  come  to  me 
when  I  came  from  the  platform — congratula- 
tions too  ardent,  doubtless,  but  so  visibly  made 


Maxims  of  Art.  165 

in  good  faith,  and  cordially,  that  they  did  me 
a  real  pleasure.  These  congratulations  were 
mingled  with  too  soft  reproaches ;  one  less 
than  in  the  hall.  It  was  that  I  had  not  made 
two  parts  of  my  lecture,  and  that  I  had  read  too 
little  of  my  verses.  This  last  criticism  was 
made  by  students  of  Leyden  and  Amsterdam, 
who  had  come  to  invite  me  to  lecture  among 
them. 

There  were  not  in  this  concourse  of  literary 
men  only  students,  amiable  young  men  and 
others  warmly  communicative.  I  noticed 
among  the  crowd  of  this  colossal  coffee-house  a 
man  yet  young,  with  a  powerful  and  devastated 
face,  who  drank  and  smoked  alone  and  dumb 
in  solitude.  I  asked  of  a  neighbor  what  this 
remarkable  figure  was.  He  answered  as  fol- 
lows :  "  It  is  Willem  Kloos,  the  divine,  taci- 
turn, extra  nervous,  and  placid.  Grand  master 
of  the  literary  movement  in  Holland.  Has  had 
an  enormous  influence  by  his  criticisms  in  the 
Nietiwe  Gids ;  began  the  war  in  1 883  by  his 
famous  introduction  to  the  posthumous  poems 
of  Jacques  Perk — died  at  23  ;  has  written  the 
most  grandly  beautiful  poems  of  our  literature. 


1 6  6  Maxims  of  Art 

"  Maladive,  often  dead,  but  is  immortal. 
Principal  work  :  '  Het  boek  van  Kind  en 
God'— 1889." 

"  In  his  first  period  Kloos  had  been  influ- 
enced by  Shelley,  by  Heine,  and  by  Count 
Platen.  He  began  by  writing  German  verses, 
which  were  published  in  an  obscure  review 
that  nobody  knows. 

"  An  irreducible  temperament.  Studied  the 
classic  letters ;  has  a  reputation  for  being 
learned  in  the  Greek  of  ^schylus  ;  has  broken 
with  university  studies  because  he  had  not  the 
ambition  to  give  lessons  for  a  living." 

At  this  moment  the  one  who  had  been  the 
object  of  so  interesting  a  communication  arose 
from  the  table  and  came  to  me  to  introduce 
himself.  We  shook  hands,  and  I  profited  from 
the  information  which  I  had  received  about 
him  to  talk  of  him  and  of  his  works.  He  re- 
plied in  a  French  harsh  but  correct,  very  grace- 
fully, in  monosyllables,  and  nothing  less  than 
the  coming  of  some  of  his  Amsterdam  compan- 
ions, great  drinkers  and  great  smokers,  could 
unwrinkle  a  little  his  noble  head. 

I  say  nothing  of  the  great  number  of  small 


Maxims  of  Art.  167 

and  of  big  glasses  drunk,  of  little  dry  cakes 
munched,  of  cold  food  absorbed,  and  of  cigars 
smoked.  The  conversation  had  become  gen- 
eral, the  women  joining  in  it. 

But  hours  fly,  and  to-morrow  is  not  to  be  a 
day  of  rest. 

The  next  morning  I  rise  late.  Verwey, 
who  does  not  live  at  The  Hague,  had  been 
invited.  This  circumstance  recalled  to  my 
memory  my  conversation  of  the  day  before 
with  this  gentleman,  so  well  informed  about 
the  men  of  letters  of  Holland,  a  conversation 
interrupted  at  the  moment  when  he  was  to 
serve  Verwey  himself  to  me. 

"  Here,"  said  Zilcken,  "  is  a  black  book. 
But  it  contains  some  notes.  Read  this  one 
among  them : 

"  '  Albert  Verwey.  Less  genius,  perhaps,  but 
more  talent  than  Kloos ;  his  elder  by  six  years. 
Has  been  the  pupil,  the  child  in  art,  and  the 
very  intimate  friend  of  Kloos.  Since  .  .  . 
has  published  in  1885  verses  of  great  beauty 
and  a  "Van  het  leven  "  of  life.  In  1889  re- 
tired a  little.  Very  precocious.  At  seventeen 
years  of  age    he  wrote   an  epic  poem  which 


1 68  Maxims  of  Art. 

made  a  great  flurry — "  Persephone  " — in  an 
extraordinary  rhythmic  form.'  " 

A  few  moments  later  Verwey  was  there. 
The  breakfast  was  gone  over  quickly,  because 
we  had  to  visit  the  museum,  which  was  open 
only  at  certain  hours.  Verwey  had  an  anxious 
air,  turned  around  the  room,  touching  art 
ol)jects  on  the  table  and  lighting  his  cigar. 
Finally  he  said,  or  rather,  so  discreet  and  timid 
he  was,  confessed,  that  he  had  composed 
verses  about  me.  And  he  improvised  the 
following  translation,  which  I  copied.  Here 
it  is  : 

"  His  cranium  was  high,  very  pale,  bow- 
shaped,  his  eyes,  half  closed,  in  a  straight  line, 
black,  the  nose  of  a  little  boy,  a  mouth  hidden 
under  a  falling  mustache,  a  chin  hidden  by  a 
pointed  beard.     .     .     . 

"  Did  his  eyes,  when  they  were  open,  laugh 
or  cry?  " 

These  verses  are  beautiful,  do  you  not  think  ? 
Verwey  had  read  them  to  me  in  Dutch,  and  I 
found  their  music  strange,  their  harmony  new. 
For  those  who  know  me  physically,  there  are 
realistic   traits   in   the    description  which   are 


Maxims  of  A  rt.  1 6  9 

perfect.  My  nose,  the  nose  of  a  little  boy,  is  a 
cleverly  caught  trait. 

I  cordially  thanked  the  poet  and  shook 
his  hand  warmly,  when  Zilcken  exclaimed, 
"  Hurry,  if  we  are  to  arrive  in  time." 

I  do  not  know  if  it  was  the  day  which  was 
so  beautiful,  or  if  it  was  the  one  when  it  rained 
so  much,  but  the  trees  along  the  canal  were 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  of  a  supreme  beauty, 
but  their  red  leaves,  black  and  gold,  had  airs  of 
mourning. 


FINIS. 


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